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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


JOURJVETS     IlSr    ITALY 


'•l  &i\^  s^U)^^  \v\j^O  '^W' 


VERONA 

Vieiv  of  the  City  from  the  Bell-  Tower  of  San  Zeno 


Journeys    in 

ITALY 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIEE 


TRANSLATED    BY 

DANIEL    B.   VERMILYE 


WITH  TWENTY-SEVEN  FULL- PAGE 
PHO  TOGRA  VURE  ILL  US  TEA  TIONS 


NEW    YORK:    BRENTANO'S 


Copyright  1902 
BY  Brentano's 


Thb  Univeesitt  Press,  CAMBErooE,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TABLE   OF 

CONTENTS    ^.^^'l'^ 

I   Geneva  — Plein-Palais  —  The  Herculean  Acrobat  1 5 

II  Lake  Leman — Brigg — Tlie  Moimtains  25 

III  The  Simplon — Domo  (T  Ossola — Luciano  Zane  37 

IV  Lake  Mag giore — Sesto-Calende — Milan  48 
V  Milan— The  Dome  — The  Open- Air  Theatre  59 

VI  The  Last  Supper — Brescia  —  Verona  68 

VII    Venice  76 

VIII  Saint  Mark's  97 

IX  Saint  Mark' s  (Concluded)  109 

X  The  Ducal  Palace  126 

XI   The  Grand  Canal  146 

XII  Life  in  Venice  155 

XIII  Familiar  Details  166 

XIV  The  Debut  of  the  Vicar  —  Gondolas — Sunset  111 
XV   The  Venetians  — William  Tell  —  Girolamo  186 

XYl  The  Arse7ial—Fus ill e  196 

XVII  The  Fine  Arts  212 

XVIII   The  Fine  Arts  (  Continued)  222 

XIX  The  Fine  Arts  (  Concluded)  232 


11.56431 


TABLE      OF     CONTENTS 

XX   The  Streets  —  The  Emperoi^s  Birthday  242 

XXI   The  Insane  Asyhim  253 

XXII  Saint  Blaise  —  The  Capuchins  262 

XXIII  The  Churches  272 

XXIV  Churches,  Schools,  and  Palaces  281 
XXV  The  Ghetto — Mnrano  —  Vicenza  292 

XXVI  Details  of  Customs  300 

XXVII  Padua  309 

XXVIII  Ferrara  319 

XXIX  Florence  332 


LIST  OF 

ILLUSTRATIONS 


Verona :    View  of  the  City  from  the  Bell-Tower  of 

-^^'^  ^^"^  Frontispiece 

Lake  of  Geneva:  Montreux  and  the  Righi  Railway  25 

The  River  Doveria  on  the  Simplon  Pass  39 

Lago  Maggiore :   The  Borromean  Islands  49 

Milan:  The  Cathedral  Front,  by  Marco  Frisone  da 

Campione  ?  a^ 

Leonardo  da  Vinci:  The  Last  Supper  {copy)  69 

Verona :  The  Roman  Amphitheatre  73 

Venice :  Saint  Mark's  Square,  with  the  Procuratie 

Vecchie  and  Nuove  g2 

Venice :  Saint  Mark's,  front.     Tenth  to  Fifteenth 

Centuries  qj 

Venice :  Interior  of  Saint  Mark's  109 

Venice :  Saint  Mark's  —  a  Detail  in  the  Interior  112 

Venice:  Saint  Mark's  —  Presbytery  and  Pulpits  122 

Venice:  The  Ducal  Palace,  by  John,  Bartholomew 

and  Pantaleo  Bon  127 

Venice :  The  Court  of  the  Ducal  Palace  130 

Venice :  Bridge  of  Sighs  ■  built  by  Antonio  da  Ponte  144 


LIST     OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

Venice:   The  Grand  Canal,  with  the  Rialto  Bridge  150 

Venice :   The  Piazzetta  of  Saint  Alark^s,  with  a  view 

of  the  Lagoon  186 

Venice :   The  Piazzetta  of  Saint  Mark^s,  with  a  view 

of  the  Island  of  Saitit  George  222 

Venice:    Vieiv  from  the  Island  of  Saint  George  233 

Venice:   The  Schiavoni  Quay  from  the  Custom-House  262 

Venice :   Church  of  the  "  Salute,^'  Baldassare  Longhena  283 

Padua  :  Palace  of  the  Royal  University  309 

Padua :   Cathedral,  by  And.  della  Valle,  Bighetti,  etc.  314 

Ferrara  :    View  from  the  Bell- Tower  of  Saint  Benedict  319 

Ferrara:   The  Cathedral.      Twelfth  and  Fifteenth 

Centuries  325 

Florence:   The  Uffizi  Porticoes  (Vassari),  with  vieiv 

of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  332 

Florence:  Promenade  of  the  "  Cascines"  {King^s 

Square)  356 


JOURNEYS     IK    ITALY 


CHAPTER    I 

GENEVA  —  PLEIN  -  PALAIS  —  A    HERCULEAN 
ACROBAT. 


WE  must  begin  by  confessing  that  our  first  step 
upon  foreign  soil  was  accompanied  by  an  act 
of  paganism  —  a  libation  to  the  rising  sun ! 
Catholic  Italy,  which  knows  so  well  how  to  accommodate 
itself  to  the  gods  of  Greece  and  Rome,  will  readily  for- 
give us ;  but  rigid  Geneva  will  doubtless  accuse  us  of 
being  somewhat  irreligious.  A  bottle  of  Vin  d^Arhois, 
bought  in  passing  through  Polignj^  a  pretty  village  at 
the  foot  of  the  Jurassic  wall  wliich  must  be  crossed  in 
leaving  France,  was  quaffed  by  us  at  break  of  day: 
Phceho  nascenti  !  This  early  morning  ray  suddenly  re- 
vealed to  us,  at  the  base  of  the  farthest  mountain  range, 
Lake  Leman,  whose  glossy  and  polished  surface  shone 
like  a  mirror  beneath  the  silvery  mists  of  the  dawning  day, 

The  road  descends  with  many  a  sharp  turn,  each  dis- 
closing an  ever  fresh  and  ever  charming  vista. 

The  fog,  as  it  cleared  away,  revealed  to  our  gaze,  as 
through  a  network  of  gauze,  the  distant  summits  of  the 
Swiss  Alps,  and  the  lake,  almost  as  large  as  a  small  sea, 
on  which,  like  feathers  of  doves  fallen  from  the  nest, 
floated  the  white  sails  of  a  be^^  of  matutinal  boats. 

We  pass  Nyon,  and  already  some  significant  details  ap- 
prise us  of  the  fact  that  we  are  no  longer  in  France. 

Small  pieces  of  wood,  cut  in  circular  form,  or  fashioned 
like  tiles,  cover  the  houses,  whose  gables  are  tipped  with 
balls  of  tin  ;  the  window-shutters  and  doors  are  made  of 
boards  placed  horizontally  instead  of  vertically,  as  is  the 
custom  in  France  ;  green,  the  color  so  dear  to  the  hearts 
[     15     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

of  those  enthusiastic  tradesmen,  the  compatriots  of  Rous- 
seau, is  replaced  by  red;  French  Switzerland  begins  to 
make  its  appearance  in  the  sign-boards,  the  names  upon 
which  already  indicate  a  German  or  Italian  derivation. 

The  road,  as  it  advances,  follows  the  shore  of  the  lake, 
whose  transparent  wavelets  die  upon  the  pebbles  of  the 
beach  with  rhythmic  regularity,  and  are  occasionally 
augmented  by  the  swell  from  some  steamboat  decked 
with  the  colors  of  the  Swiss  Confederation,  bomid  for 
Villeneuve  or  Lausanne. 

Looking  out  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  we  see  the 
mountains  we  are  about  to  descend,  upon  whose  slopes 
the  clouds  are  creeping  hke  the  smoke  of  shepherds'  fires. 

A  number  of  chars-d-hancs,  in  which  one  sits  back  to 
back  or  shoulder  to  shoulder,  plough  deep  furrows  in  the 
dust  of  the  road  and  are  drawn  by  diminutive  horses  or 
very  large  donkeys.  Villas  and  cottages  become  more 
numerous,  and  their  vases  filled  with  flowers,  their  ter- 
races and  their  walls  of  brick,  are  visible  through  the 
foliage  of  lofty  trees.  We  realize  that  we  are  drawing 
near  to  a  city  of  some  importance. 

The  idea  of  Madame  de  Stael,  with  her  big  black  eye- 
brows, her  yellow  turban  and  short  waist  in  the  fashion 
of  the  Empire,  continually  haunted  us  while  passing 
through  Coppet.  Although  fully  aware  that  she  had 
been  dead  a  long  while,  we  were  always  expecting  to 
see  her  standing  under  the  columned  peristyle  of  some 
villa,  with  Schlegel  and  Benjamin  Constant  at  her  side ; 
but  siie  did  not  make  her  appearance.  Ghosts  do  not 
willingly  show  themselves  in  broad  daylight ;  they  are 
too  shy  for  that. 

Suddenly  the  mist  cleasi-ed  away,  and  the  crests  of  the 
mountains  shone  above  the  lake  like  silver  gauze. 
Mont  Blanc,  cold  and  severe  in  its  majesty,  under  its 
diadem  of  snow  which  no  summer  sun  can  melt,  domi- 
nated the  group. 

[      16      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Carriages,  carts,  and  pedestrians  become  more  numer- 
ous, and  now  we  are  only  a  few  paces  from  Geneva. 

A  childish  notion,  which  our  many  long  journeys  have 
failed  to  dissipate  entirely,  causes  us  always  to  imagine 
cities  in  figures  made  up  of  the  product  for  which  they 
are  famous.  Thus  Brussels  is  a  great  square  of  cabbages ; 
Ostend,  a  park  of  oysters ;  Strasburg,  a  iidte  defoie  gras  ; 
Nerac,  a  ragout ;  Nuremburg,  a  box  of  toys  ;  and  Geneva, 
a  watch  with  fom*  jeweled  holes.  We  picture  to  our- 
selves a  vast  machinery  of  watch-making,  toothed  wheels, 
cylinders,  escapements,  springs,  all  going  "tick-tack" 
and  turning  perpetually.  We  fancy  the  houses,  if  there 
are  any,  as  being  capped  with  gold  and  silver,  and  the 
doors  as  being  locked  with  watch-keys.  We  imagine  the 
outskirts  of  the  city  to  be  made  of  steel  or  copper.  In- 
stead of  windows,  we  thought  of  an  infinity  of  dials  mark- 
ing all  the  different  hours.  Ah  well !  This  dream  has 
taken  flight  like  others ;  we  must  confess  that  Geneva 
does  not  resemble  a  watch  at  all.     It  is  very  sad. 

Upon  our  arrival  (and  it  seems  to  us  a  trifle  indecorous 
in  an  austere,  republican,  Calvinistic  city)  we  were 
handed,  in  exchange  for  our  passport,  a  facetious  handbill 
beginning  like  the  sketch-books  of  M.  Crepin,  M.  Jabot, 
and  Topfer,  the  ingenious  caricaturist,  with  this  droll  re- 
quest, "  Look  on  the  back" —  a  long  list  of  formalities  to 
be  complied  with. 

Geneva  has  the  serious,  somewhat  rigid  aspect  of  all 
Protestant  cities.  The  houses  are  lofty,  regular  in  shape ; 
the  straight  line,  the  right  angle  reign  supreme.  The 
square  and  the  parallelogram  are  met  with  everywhere. 
The  curve  and  ellipse  are  proscribed  as  being  too  sensu- 
ous, too  voluptuous  ;  gray  is  the  all-pervading  color  on  the 
walls  and  in  the  garments  of  the  citizens ;  the  headgear 
of  the  inhabitants  unintentionally  inclines  to  the  form  of 
the  Quaker  hat ;  one  instinctively  feels  that  there  ought 
to  be  a  multitude  of  Bibles  in  the  city  and  few  pictures. 

[     17     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

The  only  objects  in  Geneva  which  give  the  least  scope 
for  the  fancy  are  the  chimney  flues.  Nothing  more 
bizarre  or  fantastic  was  ever  seen  anywhere.  You  re- 
member those  mountebanks  whom  the  English  called 
acropedestrians,  and  who,  lying  upon  their  backs  with 
legs  in  the  air,  keep  a  wooden  bar  in  motion,  or  two  chil- 
dren covered  with  spangles.  Imagine  all  the  acropedes- 
trians in  the  world  repeating  their  performance  on  the 
roofs  of  the  houses  of  Geneva,  and  you  will  be  able  to 
form  some  idea  of  the  bifurcated  and  distorted  flues 
struggling  desperately ;  these  distortions  are  probably 
caused  by  the  wind  rushing  down  from  the  mountains 
and  blowing  furiously  through  the  valley.  Possibly  the 
Piedmontese  chimney-doctors,  before  passing  on  into 
France,  perfect  their  talent  at  Geneva,  and  execute  there 
their  masterpieces.  These  chimney  flues  are  made  of 
tin,  are  freshly  painted  and  shine  brightly  in  the  sun. 
But  let  us  leave  the  chimneys. 

It  is  strange  how  a  great  name  pervades  a  city.  That 
of  Rousseau  pursued  us  all  the  time  we  remained  in 
Geneva.  It  is  hard  to  realize  that  the  body  of  an  im- 
mortal spirit  has  disappeared,  that  the  form  which  enve- 
loped divine  thoughts  has  vanished  never  to  return.  We 
were  also  disappointed  not  to  have  encountered  on  some 
street  corner  the  author  of  the  Nouvclle  Heloisc  wearing 
a  fur  hat  and  an  Armenian  robe,  with  sad  and  gentle 
manner,  restless  and  dreamy  air,  mindful  that  his  dog  is 
following  him  and  will  not  deceive  him,  as  men  do. 

We  do  not  propose  to  say  anything  about  the  temple 
of  San  Pierre,  the  principal  church  of  the  city.  Protest- 
ant architecture  consists  of  four  Avails,  enlivened  by  the 
gray  of  the  mouse  and  the  yellow  of  the  canary.  It  is 
too  simple  for  us,  and  in  the  matter  of  art  we  are  Catho- 
lic, Apostolic  and  Roman. 

And  yet,  however  cold,  however  rigid  it  may  be, 
Geneva  possesses  a  curiosity  which  would  send  Isabey, 

[     18     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Eugen  Ciceri,  Wyld,  Lessere  and  Ballue  into  transports 
of  rapture,  but  which  would  drive  to  despair  any  citizen 
possessed  of  civic  pride.  It  is  a  block  of  barracks,  a  col- 
lection of  hovels  on  the  bank  of  the  Rhone  at  the  spot 
where  it  issues  from  the  lake  on  its  way  to  France.  We 
can  conscientiously  recommend  this  monstrosity  to  the 
water-colorists,  who  will  thank  us  for  the  suggestion. 

Nothing  about  the  barracks  is  plumb;  the  various 
stories  bulge  out  or  lean  inward.  It  is  an  incredible 
mixture  of  wooden  front,  ends  of  planks,  nailed  laths, 
cracked,  blackened,  coated  with  green  slime,  bleared,  de- 
cayed, grim,  covered  with  leprosies  and  callosities  that 
would  ravish  the  soul  of  a  Bonnington  or  a  Decamps ; 
the  windows,  with  shutters  hanging  in  haphazard  fashion, 
and  only  half  closed  by  broken  panes,  disjjlayed  festoons 
of  tripe  and  bladders  of  pork,  the  nasturtiums  -and  coboeas 
of  this  agreeable  habitation ;  vinous,  sanguinary  tints 
dimmed  by  the  rain,  complete  the  truculent  and  fero- 
cious aspect  of  these  dog-kennels,  whose  silhouette  the 
Rhone,  which  passes  beneath,  carries  oft"  on  its  dark  blue 
tide. 

Opposite  these  barracks  are  some  tanneries  which 
cause  to  be  reflected  in  the  current  of  the  river  under  the 
beams  from  which  they  are  suspended,  the  skins  of  calves, 
which  assume  in  the  water  the  appearance  of  drowned 
victims.  This  will  signify,  if .  you  look  at  the  matter 
from  a  romantic  and  nocturnal  point  of  view,  travelers 
lured  into  these  sinister  hovels  which  we  have  described 
by  some  pretty  Maguelonne,  there  slaughtered  by  Salbadie, 
and  their  bodies  hurled  into  the  river  from  one  of  those 
casements  from  which  the  blood  is  dripping. 

Let  us  go  and  wash  away  in  the  lake  these  sanguinary 
sights.  Lake  Leman  is  the  whole  of  Geneva.  It  is 
impossible,  when  one  is  in  that  city,  to  turn  one's  eyes 
away  from  it.  All  the  windows  in  the  city  make  an 
effort  to  face  toward  it,  and  houses  stand  on  tiptoe  and 

[      19     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

try  to  peep  at  it  over  the  shoulders  of  buildings  more 
fortunately  situated. 

A  flotilla  of  rowboats  and  sailboats,  with  awnings  or 
without,  await  the  pleasure  of  tourists  at  the  mole  near 
which  the  steamboats  land. 

Nothing  is  more  delightful  than  to  wander  along  the 
shore  of  that  sheet  of  blue,  transparent  as  the  Mediter- 
ranean, bordered  by  villas  which  bathe  their  feet  in  the 
waters,  and  encompassed  by  blue  mountains  tapering  off 
in  the  background.  Mount  Saleve,  the  Tooth  of  Morcle, 
and  hoary  Mont  Blanc,  seemingly  powdered  with  dust 
of  Carrara  marble,  make  a  lace  network  of  the  horizon  on 
the  Swiss  side,  while  on  the  side  toward  France  are  the 
undulations  of  the  last  fortresses  of  the  Jurassic  Alps. 
Fishing  boats,  with  sails  in  the  form  of  a  pair  of  shears, 
drift  lazily  by,  trailing  their  lines  or  drawing  their  nets. 
Lovers'  barges,  yawls,  craft  of  every  kind  fly  from  one 
shore  to  the  other  in  numbers  sufficient  to  give  animation 
to  the  picture  without  being  so  numerous  as  to  spoil  the 
effect  by  crowding. 

The  lake,  however  clear  and  tranquil,  is  still  not  with- 
out its  dangers.  We  were  told  a  story  of  a  jeweler, 
wealthy  and  retired  from  business,  who  was  drowned  in 
it,  together  with  a  friend,  their  sails  having  been  backed 
by  the  wind  and  the  boat  capsized.  Only  one  of  the 
bodies  was  recovered,  although  it  does  not  seem  possible 
for  water  so  transparent  to  guard  its  secrets.  The  nim- 
ble divers  vainly  searched  the  lake  to  a  depth  of  five 
hundred  feet.  Our  boatman  informed  us  that  the  body 
of  the  jeweler  had  either  been  drawn  into  the  current  of 
the  Rhone,  which  traverses  Lake  Leman,  or  else  had  been 
dissected  by  the  crabs  and  thus  prevented  from  rising  to 
the  surface.  This  story  spoiled  the  lake  for  us  in  a 
measure,  and  made  us  resolve  -not  to  eat  crabs  under  any 
pretext  during  our  sojourn  at  Geneva. 

We  have  a  habit,  when  traveling,  of  reading  all  the 

[     20     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

sign-boards  and  advertisements  which  are  displayed  to  the 
eyes  of  the  passing  throng.  This  study  of  the  walls  ap- 
prised us  that  there  was  a  fair-ground  at  Plein-Palais,  the 
Champs  Elysees  of  the  city,  conveniently  supplied  with 
wooden  horses,  wheels  of  fortune,  and  mountebanks.  The 
advertisement  of  Mr.  Kinne,  of  Vienna,  announced  great 
acrobatic  performances  which  especially  attracted  us. 
The  tight-rope  dance,  which  really  ought  to  be  given  in 
a  Parisian  theatre,  is  a  very  pleasing  and  interesting 
spectacle,  and  we  have  never  been  able  to  understand  why 
the  enthusiasm  which  Taglione,  Ellsler,  Carlotta  Grisi, 
and  the  Cerrito  arouse  should  not  also  extend  to  the 
tight-rope  dancers,  who  are  equally  expert  and  whose  art 
is  more  difficult  and  more  dangerous. 

It  is  on  the  Plein-Palais  side  of  the  city  that  the  aris- 
tocratic quarter  is  located ;  those  of  the  poorer  classes,  in 
which  riots  sometimes  occur,  the  suburbs  of  Saint  Mar- 
ceau  and  Saint  Anthony,  are  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
city,  across  the  Rhone  bridges. 

A  compact  crowd,  excited  without  being  turbulent, 
wended  its  way  toward  the  city  gates.  In  this  crowd 
of  considerable  proportions  we  encountered  nothing  re- 
markable in  the  way  of  costume.  There  were  the 
fashions  of  France,  a  little  belated,  a  little  provincial ;  we 
noticed  a  slight  peculiarity  in  the  straw  hats  of  the  men, 
which  had  a  black  band  and  a  cord  of  the  same  color ; 
and  in  the  wide  rim  of  those  worn  by  the  women,  which 
drooped  in  such  a  manner  as  to  hide  the  greater  part  of 
the  face  and  neck. 

The  women  themselves  have  a  French  air,  mingled 
with  a  German  or  American  manner,  which  is  easier  to 
understand  than'  to  describe,  and  which  is  due  to  their 
religion.  A  Protestant  woman  neither  sits,  stands,  nor 
walks  like  a  Catholic,  and  her  gown  falls  in  different  folds. 
Even  her  beauty  is  not  the  same  as  that  of  her  Catholic 
sister  ;  she  has  a  peculiar,  penetrating  gaze,  self-contained 

[     21     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

like  that  of  a  priest,  a  formal  smile,  a  studied  meekness 
of  expression,  a  sly  air  of  modesty,  all  plainly  indicating 
tlie  housekeeper  or  minister's  daughter. 

Mr.  Kinne  occupied  a  canvas  enclosure,  roofed  by  the 
sky  and  lighted  by  a  dozen  lamps,  the  flames  of  which 
were  sometimes  so  ardently  licked  by  the  evening  breeze 
as  to  endanger  their  wooden  supports.  Kinne,  let  me 
say  at  once,  is  a  great  artist,  and  we  were  forcibly  im- 
pressed by  his  talent.  The  slack  and  narrow  rope  has 
not  supported  many  of  equal  merit.  Perhaps  you  may 
fancy  him  as  a  thin,  aerial  looking  young  man,  a 
human  shuttlecock  rebounding  from  an  acrobatic  battle- 
dore. You  will  be  altogether  mistaken.  Attention  1 
This  is  what  is  about  to  happen  —  the  orchestra  sounds 
a  triumphant  fanfare  ;  the  big  drum  booms ;  the  counter- 
bass  blows  ;  the  cymbals  groan  ;  the  trombone  roars ;  the 
clarionette  whines  ;  the  fife  yelps  ;  the  musicians,  having 
regained  their  breath  and  renewed  the  strength  of  their 
arms,  extract  from  their  instruments  the  greatest  volume 
of  sound  of  which  they  are  capable  ;  everything  indicates 
the  entrance  of  a  great  artist,  the  star  of  the  troupe ;  a 
great  silence  falls  upon  the  multitude.  From  the  box, 
which  serves  as  wings  for  the  stage  of  the  mountebanks, 
imperiously  leaps  forth  a  big  fellow  shaped  like  a  Her- 
cules. He  advances  with  an  air  of  resolution  toward 
the  wooden  horse  which  sustains  the  tightly-drawn  rope  ; 
with  his  strong  hand  he  seizes  the  rope  and  establishes 
himself  upon  it. 

Nowhere  in  the  painted  Swiss  windows  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  or  in  the  wood  carvings  of  the  Triumph  of  Maxi- 
milian by  Albert  Dvirer,  is  there  to  be  seen  foot-soldier 
or  cavalryman  of  a  more  stately  or  formidable  bearing. 
From  his  peaked  cap,  like  the  bonnet  of  Gessler,  wave  three 
violent  and  dishevelled  plumes,  more  distorted  than  the 
mantling  of  a  Burgrave's  escutcheon  ;  his  doublet  was 
slashed  in  Spanish  style  and  his  girdle  was  with  difficulty 

[     22     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

buckled  around  liis  stomacli,  which  needed  to  be  encircled 
with  iron,  like  the  heart  of  Prince  Henry,  if  it  were  not 
to  burst.  His  neck  projected  from  beneath  his  skull  in 
three  great  folds  to  the  nape,  like  the  neck  of  a  molossus, 
and  supported  a  head  which  was  square,  bold,  ferocious 
and  jovial,  the  head  of  a  soldier  of  Herod,  or  of  the  exe- 
cutioner of  Calvary,  or,  if  these  comparisons  are  too 
Biblical,  that  of  the  heroes  of  the  Niebelungen  in  the 
illustrations  of  Cornelius.  His  enormous  limbs  displayed 
their  knotted  muscles  beneath  white  trunks,  looking  like 
oaks  of  the  Hercynian  forest  in  trousers,  while  his  arms, 
with  every  movement,  displayed  biceps  like  bullets  of 
forty-eight. 

A  balancing  pole,  doubtless  made  of  a  yoimg  pine  tree 
from  the  moimtain  side,  is  thrown  to  this  Polyphemus  of 
the  rope,  who  began  to  leap  upon  the  cable,  which  every 
moment  we  feared  would  give  away,  with  incredible  ease, 
grace,  and  agility. 

This  fellow,  alongside  whom  Hercules,  Samson,  Goliath 
and  Milo  of  Crotona  would  have  seemed  consumptives, 
soon  grew  disdainful  of  such  simple  exercises ;  he  placed 
chairs  and  tables  by  his  side  upon  the  rope  and  proceeded 
to  partake  of  a  repast  upon  it,  and  by  way  of  express- 
ing the  idea  of  gaiety  suitable  to  the  dessert,  danced  a 
gavotte,  with  a  child  of  twelve  or  fifteen  years  of  age 
hanging  on  each  foot. 

This  display  of  athletic  prowess,  in  connection  with  an 
exercise  seeming  to  require  only  suppleness  and  dexterity, 
produces  a  singular  effect. 

To  this  Cyclopean  vaulting  succeeded  a  polka,  danced 
with  much  grace  and  precision  upon  two  parallel  ropes 
by  two  sisters  of  almost  the  same  size.  One  of  these 
young  girls  was  really  charming.  She  had  a  sweet  and 
pretty  air  and  winning  smile.  She  appeared  in  two  dif- 
ferent costumes  ;  first  in  a  black  corsage  and  white  skirt 
spangled  with  stars ;  and  afterwards  in  a  yellow  skirt 
[     23     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

with  a  black  corsage,  which  was  very  captivating. 
After  the  pclka,  she  danced  a  jqcis  scul  on  the  rope,  a 
classic  step,  forward  and  back,  just  as  though  she  were 
on  the  boards  of  the  opera. 

After  the  rope-dance  the  girl  executed  the  dance  of 
the  eggs  :  a  number  of  eggs  are  laid  out  on  the  ground 
like  checkers  on  a  checker-board,  and  she  is  obliged  to 
pass  through  the  narrow  lanes  formed  by  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  eggs,  with  her  eyes  bandaged  and  without 
striking  with  her  foot  a  single  egg.  The  least  awkward- 
ness on  the  girl's  part  would  make  an  omelette  of  the 
dance ;  Mignon,  assuredly,  in  her  feat  of  agility  before 
Wilhelm  ^Nleister,  did  not  acquit  herself  more  creditably 
than  this  young  girl  of  Kinne's  troupe  before  her 
Genevese  public,  nor  was  Goethe's  model  more  charming 
than  that  supplied  by  her  delicious  figure.  We  seemed 
to  hear  leaping  to  her  lips  the  melancholy  air, 

"  Knowest  thou  the  laud  where  the  citrou  blooms  ?  " 

The  performance  ended,  every  one  hastens  toward  the 
city  gates,  which  are  closed  at  a  certain  hour,  after  which 
one  must  pay  a  fee  to  the  gate-keeper  to  induce  him  to 
open  them  for  you  to  enter  the  city. 


[     24     ] 


LAKE  LEMAN 

Montreux  and  the  livjld  Railway 


CHAPTER    II 
LAKE  LEMAN— BRIGG— THE  MOUNTAINS 


GENEVA  had  given  us  all  the  pleasures  which 
a  Protestant  Sunday  could  allow :  a  trip  on  the 
lake,  a  marvelous  sunset  on  JMont  Blanc,  and  a 
charming-  vision  of  beautiful  trees  and  a  starry  sky;  it 
was  time  for  us  to  take  our  departure. 

We  had  at  first  wished  to  make  the  journey  in  a  pri- 
vate carriage,  but  fortunately  the  price  they  demanded 
was  so  extravagant — taking  us  doubtless  for  Englishmen 
or  Russian  princes — that  the  bargain  was  not  made,  and 
we  had  the  advantage  of  not  being  drawn  at  a  snail's 
pace  in  one  of  those  antediluvian  vehicles  by  wretched 
horses  worthy  of  the  Paris  cabs.  The  rapidity  and  the 
convenience  of  the  journey,  as  subsequently  made  by  us, 
amply  recompensed  us  for  this  violation  of  local  color. 

A  stage-coach  Avas  to  conduct  us  to  Milan,  passing 
over  the  Simplon ;  not  the  same  vehicle  for  the  entire 
journey,  since  we  were  obliged  to  change  at  the  border 
of  almost  every  State  through  which  we  passed,  the  gov- 
ernment having  a  monopoly  of  the  means  of  transporta- 
tion, and  we  had  no  other  care  than  that  of  transferring 
ourselves  from  a  Genevese  coach  to  a  Savoyard  coach, 
which  yielded  us  up  to  a  Swiss  coach,  which  in  turn 
passed  us  over  to  a  Piedmontese  coach,  which  finally 
handed  us  over  to  an  Austrian  coach. 

Do  not  think  there  is  the  least  exaggeration  in  this ; 
this  flood  of  stage-coaches  is  the  veritable  truth ;  the 
truth  itself  is  incredible. 

In  leaving  Geneva  one  passes  on  to  Coligny,  from 
which  place  we  enjoy  an  admirable  view.  Geneva  is 
outlined  at  the  head  of  the  lake ;  the  Alps  and  Mont 
[     25     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Blanc  rise  on  the  left  (in  turning  toward  the  city),  and 
on  the  right  one  discovers  the  distant  Jura.  It  was  near 
this  place  that  we  came  across  a  country  house  in  a 
most  picturesque  situation,  and  which  belonged  to  that 
Doctor  Tronchin  so  celebrated  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury ;  it  is  still  occupied  by  a  Tronchin,  of  the  family 
of  the  illustrious  physician. 

The  first  village  of  Savoy  which  one  meets  with  is 
Dovanies  or  Dovenia.  We  fancied  that  we  should  see 
a  population  of  young  Savoyards,  road-scrapers  in  hand, 
with  knee-caps,  annlets,  and  leather  plate  on  seat  of 
breeches,  as  portrayed  in  the  verses  of  M.  de  Voltaire, 
the  pictures  of  M.  Hornung,  and  the  traditions  of  Sera- 
phin.  It  seemed  to  us  that  each  chimney  ought  to  bear 
on  its  top  a  figure  besmeared  with  soot,  with  brilliant 
eyes  and  glittering  teeth,  uttering  the  cry  so  familiar  to 
the  children,  "  Bamoni,  ramona,  la  cheminee  du  haut  en 
has." 

The  Savoyards,  who  among  themselves  are  known  as 
Savoisiens,  on  account  of  their  not  having  the  air  of 
Auvergnats,  not  only  were  not  occupied  with  sweeping, 
but  were  celebrating  a  festival  of  some  kind  and  were 
firing  balls  at  a  bird  perched  on  the  top  of  a  fifty-foot 
pole.  Each  lucky  hit  was  greeted  by  fanfares  and  sound- 
ing trumpets. 

Leaving  Dovenia,  one  loses  sight  of  the  lake,  and 
traverses  fields,  well  cultivated  and  of  a  fertile  aspect ; 
the  Indian  corn  with  its  pretty  tufts,  the  vineyards  di- 
vided into  terraces  supported  by  little  walls,  some  fig 
trees  with  big  leaves,  advise  us  of  our  approach  to  Italy. 

Presently  we  return  to  the  lake,  not  again  to  leave  it. 
We  pass  by  Thonon  and  Evian,  where  we  stop  for  a  few 
moments,  and  which  is  one  of  the  most  favorable  points 
for  acquiring  a  general  view  of  Lake  Leman.  Never 
have  painters,  without  excepting  even  Sechan,  Dieterle, 
and  Despl^chins,  or  Thierry  and  Cambon,   arranged  a 

[     26     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

scene  with  so  marvelous  a  regard  for  effect  as  that  which 
is  found  at  Evian  by  the  simple  chance  of  nature. 

jFrom  the  height  of  a  terrace  shaded  by  great  trees, 
one  perceives  an  abyss  ;  on  approaching  the  parapet  and 
looking  down,  one  sees  the  tops  of  lesser  trees  and  the 
roofs  disfigured  by  tiles  of  wood  or  flat  stones  of  the  vil- 
lage below.  This  first  plane,  of  a  warm,  vigorous  tone, 
forms  a  most  excellent  set-off.  It  terminates  in  boats 
with  slender  prows,  masts  of  salmon  color,  with  clewed- 
up  mainsails  which  are  resting  themselves  on  the  shore. 
The  second  plane  is  the  lake,  and  the  third  is  the  momi- 
tains  of  Switzerland,  which  unroll  themselves  for  a  stretch 
of  a  dozen  leagues. 

These  are  the  grosser  lineaments  of  the  scene ;  but 
that  which  the  pencil  can  probably  more  powerfully  de- 
pict than  the  pen  is  the  color  of  the  lake.  The  most 
glorious  summer  sky  is  assm-edly  less  pure  and  less  trans- 
parent. The  rock-crystal  and  the  diamond  are  not  more 
limpid  than  "the  virgin  water  descending  from  neighbor- 
ing glaciers. 

The  distance,  the  greater  or  less  depth,  the  play  of 
light,  give  to  it  vaporous,  ideal,  impossible  tints,  which 
seem  to  belong  to  another  planet ;  the  cobalt,  ultra- 
marine, sapphire,  turquoise,  the  azure  of  the  most 
beautiful  blue  eyes,  have  shades  which  are  dull  in  com- 
parison with  it. 

Some  reflections  from  the  wing  of  the  kingfisher ; 
some  iris  on  the  mother-of-pearl  of  certain  shells  alone 
give  an  idea  of  it,  or  some  distant  elysium  and  blue  tints 
in  the  pictures  of  Paradise  by  Breughel. 

One  asks  oneself  if  it  is  water  and  sky,  or  the  azure 
mist  of  a  dream  that  one  has  before  him ;  the  air,  the 
earth  and  the  wave  are  reflected  and  mmgled  in  the 
strangest  fashion.  Often  a  boat,  drawing  after  it  its 
shadow  of  dark  blue,  reveals  to  you  that  what  you  have 
taken  for  an  opening  in  the  sky  is  really  a  bit  of  the  lake. 

[     27     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

The  mountains  assume  unimaginable  shades,  pearl  and 
silver-grays  and  rose  tints,  hortensia  and  lilac,  blue  ashes 
like  the  ceilings  of  Paul  Veronese ;  here  and  there  some 
white  spots  scintillate,  —  they  are  Lausanne,  Vevey,  Ville- 
neuve.  The  shadow  of  the  mountains  reflected  in  the 
water  is  so  pure  in  tone,  so  transparent,  that  one  cannot 
longer  distinguish  the  meaning  of  objects ;  the  slight 
chill  of  silver  which  hems  the  banks  of  the  lake  is  neces- 
sary in  order  to  recover  it.  Above  the  first  chain  the 
Tooth  of  IMorcle  shows  its  two  whitish  prongs. 

It  is  at  this  point  that  the  Rhone  enters  the  lake ;  the 
Rhone,  which  we  shall  follow  as  far  as  Brigg. 

At  Saint  Gengouph,  good-byes  must  be  said  to  Lake 
Leman,  which,  in  fact,  stops  there,  and  terminates  at  the 
foot  of  Villeneuve  its  great  debauch  of  azure.  All  of 
this  day  passed  like  a  dream,  in  a  bath  of  blue  and  ten- 
der light,  in  a  mirage  of  Fata  Morgana  What  enchant- 
ing harmony,  what  Athenian  and  tempered  grace,  what 
ineffable  sweetness,  what  chaste  voluptuousness,  what  a 
sweet  and  mysterious  caress  of  nature  enwrapping  the 
soul ! 

This  journey  along  the  border  of  the  lake  recalls  to 
us  a  day  of  heavenly  enjoyment  passed  at  Grenada,  on 
the  Mulhacen,  on  the  same  date  ten  years  ago,  in  an 
ocean  of  snow,  of  light,  and  of  azure. 

In  leaving  Lake  Leman  in  the  distance,  the  road  still 
remains  picturesque,  although  nothing  can  replace  the 
effect  of  that  immense  mirror,  of  that  sky  melting  into 
water. 

We  follow  a  road  bordered  by  fine  trees,  whose  shade 
preserves  the  freshness  of  the  valley.  Rocks  tower  on 
either  side  to  prodigious  heights  ;  one  of  them  seems 
terminated  by  a  castle,  with  its  towers,  crenelated  ram- 
parts, its  donjon  keep,  its  pepper-box  watch-towers.  The 
snow,  in  silvering  the  projections  and  cornices  of  the  rock, 
makes  the  illusion  still  more  complete ;   the  imagination 

[     -^»     J 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

cannot  otherwise  fancy  tlie  dwelling-place  of  the  Job  of 
Victor  Hugo. 

The  Rhone  glides  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  now 
near  by,  now  far  away,  but  always  yellow  and  tempestu- 
ous, rolling  along  wdth  it  in  its  flow,  stones  and  gravel, 
and  often  changing  its  place  in  its  bed,  like  a  restless 
man  ill  with  a  fever.  The  river  has  great  need  of  pass- 
ing through  the  filter  of  Lake  Leman  in  order  to  acquire 
that  deep  blue  which  characterizes  it  in  setting  out  from 
Geneva;  since,  as  the  great  poet  whom  we  have  just 
quoted  has  remarked,  "  The  Rhone  is  blue  as  the  Mediter- 
ranean, where  it  empties  itself,  and  the  Rhine,  green  as 
the  ocean  toward  which  it  runs." 

It  is  sad  that  this  charming  landscape  should  be 
peopled  with  those  afllicted  wdth  goitre  ;  one  encounters 
at  every  step  women,  often  comely  beneath  their  little 
national  hat  trimmed  with  red  ribbons,  wdio  are  afflicted 
with  this  disgusting  deformity. 

The  goitre  is  like  the  membranous  pocket  which  the 
pelican  carries  under  its  beak.  They  are  some  of  them 
enormous.  Is  it  the  shadow  of  the  mountains,  or  the 
harshness  of  the  snow-water  which  causes  this  horrible 
deformity?  It  has  never  been  determined.  Women, 
especially  old  women,  are  more  subject  to  the  disease 
than  men.  There  can  be  no  greater  affliction.  The  cre- 
tin, with  liis  depressed  skull,  his  tuberculous  neck,  sneer- 
ing and  growling  at  j^our  carriage  door.  Hideous  picture  ! 
Behold  man  fallen  below  the  animal ;  the  animal  has  its 
instinct. 

We  dmed  at  Saint  Maurice,  a  big  fortified  town  on 
the  bank  of  the  Rhone,  and  of  a  very  stern  appearance. 
On  the  hotel  walls  hung  some  lithographs,  representing 
military  exploits  of  Switzerland :  Gen.  Wm.  Henry 
Dufour  surromided  by  his  staff.  Hussy  d'Argovie,  Esch- 
niann,  Frey-Herosd,  Pfoender-  de  Lindenfrey,  Zimmerli, 
and  several  others.     There  were  also  portraits  of  Ochsen- 

[     -'9     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

bein,  President  of  the  Diet  in  1847,  and  of  Jacques  Robert 
Steiger.  Let  us  remark  here  that  all  the  pictures  in 
these  inns  come  from  the  Hue  des  Magons-Sorbonne  in 
Paris,  and  represent  the  four  seasons  and  four  parts  of 
the  world. 

At  Saint  Maurice  we  were  put  into  a  fantastic  one- 
seated  vehicle,  in  which  one  could  not  stretch  himself  out 
straight,  nor  double  up  nor  lie  down,  nor  sit  comfortably, 
so  ingenious  was  its  construction.  This  vehicle  conveyed 
us  to  Marigny,  where  we  were  made  to  climb  into  a 
stage-coach. 

Night  fell  cold  and  foggy,  and  we  commenced  to  dis- 
cern with  difficulty  the  confused  and  gigantic  forms  of 
the  mountains ;  we  passed  through  Sion  half  asleep,  and 
when  day  appeared  at  the  end  of  a  valley  traversed  by 
torrents  and  rendered  moist  by  marshy  infiltrations,  Brigg 
showed  itself  with  its  bell-towers  and  buildings  crowned 
with  tin  balls,  which  give  it  the  air  of  a  Kremlin  on  a  small 
scale.  Here  the  pass  of  the  Simplon  begins.  One  is  only 
separated  by  a  mountam  crest  from  that  Italy  whose 
name  is  so  powerful,  according  to  Henri  Heine,  that  it 
compels  even  the  Philistine  Berlinese  to  sing  Tirily. 

The  pass  of  the  Simplon  which  we  are  about  to  trav- 
erse, is  a  marvel  of  human  genius.  Napoleon,  remem- 
bering the  difficulty  which  Hannibal  in  other  days 
encomitered  in  melting  the  Alps  with  vinegar,  as  the 
historians  seriously  narrate,  wished  to  spare  the  conquer- 
ors desirous  of  returning  to  Italy  that  labor,  and  caused 
this  miraculous  road  to  be  built  within  three  years. 

Ancient  vinegar  must  have  been  terribly  strong,  since 
one  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  pounds  of  powder  and 
ten  thousand  men  were  required  to  build  on  the  rugged 
side  of  the  mountain  this  imperceptible  streak  which  is 
called  a  road. 

The  plain  rises  by  a  quite  gentle  inclination,  between 
two  banks  of  mountains  which  seem  as   though  they 

[     30     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

could  be  touched  with  one's  fingers,  although  they  are  really 
quite  distant ;  but  in  Alpine  regions  one  is  deceived  in 
regard  to  distance  almost  every  moment  by  the  perpen- 
dicularity of  the  planes.  The  crests  left  behind  are 
covered  with  snow ;  it  is  a  ramification  of  the  Helvetian 
Alps  ;  on  their  sides,  which  seem  inaccessible  even  to  the 
foot  of  the  goat,  are  held  in  suspension,  one  knows  not 
how,  villages  recognized  by  their  bell-towers,  the  only 
objects  visible.  Huts  lost  in  the  mountains,  with  their 
penthouses  of  wood  and  roofs  covered  with  stones  for 
fear  of  their  being  carried  off  by  the  wind,  reveal  at  once 
the  unexpected  presence  of  man ;  there,  blockaded  by 
frost  and  avalanche,  the  shepherds  pass  the  winter  far 
fi'om  all  human  intercourse.  Where  you  expect  to  meet 
only  eagles  and  the  chamois,  you  will  find  men  and 
women  haymakers  ;  the  cultivation  of  the  soil  momits  to 
dizzy  heights.  We  saw  a  \A'oman  there,  raking  hay  at 
the  edge  of  a  precipice  fiften  hundred  feet  deep,  in  a 
field  with  an  inclination  like  a  slanting  roof,  and  which 
was  dotted  with  cows,  the  tinkling  of  whose  bells  we 
heard. 

Brigg  is  already  visible  at  the  bottom  of  the  valley, 
looking  like  one  of  those  boxes  of  German  toys  represent- 
ing a  village  carved  in  wood.  There  are  the  same  pro- 
portions in  both.  The  balls  of  tin  shine  like  spangles  in 
the  mofning  rays.  The  Rhone  seems  no  more  than  a 
yellow  thread. 

To  the  right  of  the  road  extends,  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
see,  a  horizon  of  mountains,  lifting  their  heads  one  above 
another,  and  forming  a  sublime  panorama. 

Mont  Blanc,  at  the  base  of  this  magnificent  chaos,  puts 
forth  several  of  its  snowy  pinnacles. 

On  the  left  are  great  forests  of  fir  trees  of  surprising 
vigor  and  beauty ;  the  fir  tree  is  the  grass  of  the  moun- 
tain. It  bears  the  same  relation  to  the  mountains  as  the 
grass  to  the  meadow.     That  abrupt  escarpment  which 

[     31     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

seems  to  be  so  velvety,  with  patches  of  moss  here  and 
there,  is  in  reality  covered  with  firs  and  birches  sixty 
feet  high. 

These  blades  of  grass  would  serve  as  masts  for  ships ; 
this  scratching  of  the  skin  of  the  mountain  is  a  valley 
which  might  hide  and  which  often  does  hide  a  village  in 
its  folds.  This  whitish  and  immobile  band,  which  you 
would  take  for  a  vein  of  snow,  is  a  foaming  torrent  which 
is  precipitating  itself  headlong  Avith  a  horrible  noise  one 
does  not  hear,  so  far  off  is  it. 

There  can  be  nothing  finer  or  more  magnificent  than 
the  beginning  of  the  Simplon  pass,  in  coming  from 
Geneva ;  immensity  does  not  exclude  charm ;  a  certain 
voluptuous  grace  clothes  these  colossal  undulations ;  the 
fir  trees  are  of  a  green  so  fresh,  so  mysterious,  so  tender 
in  its  intensity ;  they  have  a  carriage  so  elegant,  so  un- 
constrained, so  st^eltc ;  they  stretch  out  their  arms  to  you 
in  so  friendly  a  manner  imder  their  coverings  of  verdure  ; 
they  know  so  well  how  to  assume  the  air  of  columns 
with  their  silvered  trunks  ;  the  brooks  with  their  silvery 
voices  prattle  so  prettily  by  your  side  under  the  stones 
or  the  aquatic  plants ;  the  precipices  are  so  attractive 
that  one  feels  in  a  state  of  extraordinary  exhilaration  and 
as  though  he  would  willingly  launch  himself  head  first 
into  these  beautiful  gorges. 

"We  keep  alongside  of  a  delightful  abyss  for  some  time, 
at  the  bottom  of  which  the  Saltine  makes  foamy  leaps 
and  dishevels  itself  in  the  most  picturesque  manner.  The 
forests  of  firs  present  a  singular  aspect.  The  trunks  of 
the  trees,  cut  some  feet  from  the  ground,  have  the  ap- 
pearance of  columns  such  as  are  erected  in  Turkish  ceme- 
teries, and  one  asks  with  astonislunent  how  so  many 
Osmanlis  came  to  be  buried  on  a  Swiss  mountain.  When 
the  cutting  has  been  done  recently,  the  gash  made  by  the 
axe  discloses  clear  salmon  tints,  which  greatly  resemble 
human  flesh ;  one  might  think  of  them  as  the  wounds 

[      32      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

made  in  the  bodies  of  those  nymphs  whom  the  ancients 
supposed  to  inhabit  the  interior  of  trees.  Regarded  in 
this  light,  the  fir  tree  assumes  an  interesting  and  sorrow- 
ful air ;  sometimes  the  earth  has  given  way  under  its  feet 
and  it  has  slipped  half  way  down  the  precipice,  held  back 
in  its  fall  by  the  arms  of  some  more  solid  friends. 

At  regular  distances  houses  of  refuge,  designated  by  a 
number  and  of  which  there  are  eight  in  all,  if  our  memory 
does  not  deceive  us,  are  at  the  service  of  travelers  over- 
taken by  a  storm,  a  snowslide  or  an  avalanche.  Even 
in  these  solitary  wilds,  apparently  so  desolate,  human 
thoughtfulness  nevertheless    accompanies   and   protects 

yon- 

When  you  believe  yourself  entirely  alone  with  Nature 
and  God,  drowned  in  the  vast  sea  of  immensity,  a  la- 
borer, who  humbly  breaks  stones  and  busies  himself  with 
filling  up  the  rut  which  was  about  to  overturn  your  car- 
riage, recalls  you  to  the  feeling  of  the  miiversal  solidar- 
ity of  the  race.  In  this  profound  isolation  one  of  your 
brothers  is  working  for  you ;  a  herd  of  frightened  goats 
climb  the  length  of  the  perpendicular  walls  formed  by 
the  rocks,  leaping  from  one  rough  spot  to  another  with 
incredible  agility  in  spite  of  the  cry  of  the  herdsman  who 
calls  them ;  a  piece  of  cultivated  ground  appears  all  at 
once ;  a  group  of  houses  informs  us  that  there  human 
beings  love  and  hate,  suffer  and  are  glad,  live  and  die  as 
on  the  plain  and  in  the  city  ;  isolated  cabins  reveal  hearts 
strong  enough  to  support  without  dejection  of  spirit  this 
spectacle  of  immensity  and  to  remain  face  to  face  with 
God,  in  spite  of  all  human  distraction. 

Arrived  at  a  point  where  the  valley  runs  through  a 
deep  cut  into  which  all  the  torrents  and  all  the  streams 
which  gush  from  the  mountains  and  cross  the  road  by  sub- 
terranean conduits  hurl  themselves,  we  cross  a  bridge  with 
abutments  of  a  prodigious  height,  then  we  make  a  bend 
and  begin  to  momit  another  slope. 

[      33     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

Here  is  found  the  relay  house,  its  two  sets  of  buildings 
connected  by  a  covered  gallery  in  the  form  of  a  bridge. 

Mount  Alost,  which  we  had  all  along  seen  at  the  end 
of  the  perspective,  hides  its  snowy  head  on  the  horizon, 
and  we  have  before  us  the  Pflecht-Horn  with  its  cap  of 
ice  from  whence  torrents  flow,  and  a  little  further  off,  the 
Schoen-Horn,  its  summit  hidden  by  clouds  ;  the  iir  trees 
become  more  scattered,  vegetation  is  sensibly  impover- 
ished ;  nevertheless,  hardy  plants  continue  to  keep  com- 
pany with  man  and  recall  the  idea  of  life  in  those  places 
where  all  seems  dead.  The  rhododendron  displays  its 
vivid  green  and  its  beautiful  flower,  which  is  here  called 
the  rose  of  the  Alps  ;  the  blue  gentian,  the  saxifrage,  the 
dogwood  with  its  red  flowers,  the  myosotis,  with  its  little 
turquoise  stars,  climb  the  mountain  bravely  with  you, 
taking  advantage  of  a  narrow  thread  of  water,  a  little 
earth  in  the  crevice  of  the  rock,  a  fissure  in  the  schist,  of 
the  slightest  favorable  chance.  Man  himself  never  gives 
up  ;  he  builds  even  on  the  ice,  at  the  risk  of  being  carried 
off  by  water  and  by  snow ;  he  seems  to  make  it  a  point  to 
dwell  in  uninhabitable  localities. 

We  had  now  reached  almost  the  highest  point  of  the 
pass,  something  like  five  thousand  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  sea.  There  was  nothing  between  us  and  the  sky 
except  the  glacier  of  Pflecht-Horn,  from  which  four 
almost  perpendicular  torrents  precipitate  themselves; 
four  waterspouts  of  froth  and  mud.  We  could  dis- 
tinctly see  the  first  of  these  torrents  leap  from  the  edge 
of  the  glacier  in  a  cascade  of  crystalline  green.  It  was 
strange  and  beautiful  to  behold  this  foaming  and  pow- 
dery water,  which  passes  over  the  road,  come  rushing 
from  the  height  of  this  peak,  covered  over  in  this  place  by 
a  vaulted  gallery  which  the  infiltrations  have  adorned  with 
stalactites,  and  which  has  now  the  appearance  of  a  natu- 
ral grotto;  some  openings  permit  us  to  see  the  cataract 
underneath,  which  falls    roaring   into  the  abyss.     The 

[     34     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

other  waters  rumble  and  fly  in  rockets  of  silver,  in 
snowy  foam,  with  an  miimaginable  noise  and  turbu- 
lence. The  sight  was  very  wild  and  romantic.  The 
Pflecht-Horn  at  this  height  offers  to  the  view  nothing 
more  than  meagre  soil,  rocks,  ice,  snow,  torrential 
waters;  the  skin  of  the  planet  appears  in  all  its  nudity, 
which  some  compassionate  cloud  veils  from  time  to  time 
with  its  covering  cloak. 

From  this  point  the  road  begins  to  descend ;  we  leave 
the  Helvetic  dechvity  for  the  Italian  declivity,  and  here 
is  a  curious  thing!  From  the  moment  we  left  the  sum- 
mit which  separates  the  two  regions  we  were  struck 
with  the  great  diflierence  in  temperature.  On  the  Hel- 
vetic side  there  was  Gharming,  soft,  warm,  bright 
weather ;  on  the  Italian  side  a  glacial  "wind  blew,  and 
great  clouds,  like  fogs,  passed  over  us  and  enwrapped  us ; 
the  cold  was  atrocious,  and  very  perceptible  on  account 
of  the  contrast.  The  cloak  and  coat  that  we  never 
wanted  to  carry  when  going  South  scarcely  sufficed  to 
keep  our  teeth  from  chattering. 

The  old  hospice  of  the  Simplon  appeared  upon  a 
lower  plateau,  to  the  right  of  the  road,  coming  from 
Switzerland;  it  is  a  yellowish  structure,  surmounted 
with  a  high  bell-tower.  The  new  hospice,  much  larger, 
is  on  the  left.  Travelers  in  peril  or  worn  out  with 
fatigue  are  received  in  it.  There  are  lavished  upon 
them  gratuitously  the  needs  which  their  condition  calls 
for.  Wealthy  people  who  enjoy  its  hospitality  donate 
something  for  the  church.  At  the  moment  we  were 
passing  in  front  of  the  hospice,  two  priests  came  out, 
one  young,  the  other  old  but  of  a  vigorous  old  age,  who 
descended  the  side  toward  Italy ;  they  both  wore  hats 
with  turned-up  brims,  short  breeches,  black  stockings, 
buckled  shoes ;  it  was  the  ancient  costume  of  the  priest, 
worn  with  the  ease  and  security  of  ecclesiastics  in  a  truly 
religious  country. 

[     35     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

The  character  of  the  mountains,  which  one  might 
naturally  suppose  would  become  more  mild  and  laughing 
in  its  aspect  in  approaching  Italy,  assumes,  on  the  con- 
trary, an  extraordinary  roughness  and  savagery.  It 
might  be  said  that  Nature  had  made  a  jest  of  our  pre- 
conceptions, or  that  she  wished  to  prepare  a  set-off,  as 
the  painters  say,  for  the  gracious  perspectives  which  she 
was  about  to  unfold.  This  reversal  of  characteristics  is 
very  curious ;  it  is  Switzerland  that  is  Italian  and  Italy 
that  is  Swiss,  on  this  astonishing  pass  of  the  Simplon. 

From  the  beginning  of  the  descent,  which  ends  at  the 
village  of  Simplon,  is  a  distance  of  two  leagues,  which 
are  rapidly  traversed;  we  cross  several  times  a  very 
blustering  and  greatly  convulsed  torrent,  along  which 
passes  a  stream,  conducted  in  wooden  tubes,  after  the 
manner  of  an  aqueduct,  toward  the  fields  which  it 
irrigates. 

As  we  traveled  along,  we  compared  these  mountains 
to  the  different  Spanish  Sierras  which  we  had  seen.  The 
contrast  is  very  great;  the  Sierra  Morena  with  its  great 
strata  of  red  marble,  its  green  oaks,  and  its  cork  trees ; 
the  Sierra  Nevada,  with  its  jeweled  torrents  in  which 
oleanders  are  steeped,  its  folds,  its  shet-color  satin  reflec- 
tions, its  peaks,  which  the  evening  light  makes  blush  like 
young  girls  when  spoken  to  of  love ;  the  Jura  Alps  with 
their  escarpments  bathed  by  the  sea,  their  old  Moorish 
cities  and  their  lookout  towers  perched  upon  some  inac- 
cessible plateau,  their  declivities  where  the  burnt  grass 
is  like  a  lion's  skin ;  the  Sierra  Guadarana  all  bristling 
with  masses  of  bluish  granite,  in  nowise  resembling  the 
Alps,  thus  nature,  by  means  of  elements  similar  in  ap- 
pearance, knows  well  how  to  produce  varied  effects. 


C     36     ] 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  SIMPLON  — DOMO  D'OSSOLA  — LUCIANO 

ZANE 


THE  village  of  Siraplon  is  composed  of  a  few 
houses  huddled  together  by  the  side  of  the 
road,  and  assists  in  relieving  the  fatigue  of  the 
journey  for  travelers.  We  stopped  to  dine  there  at  a 
very  good  inn.  The  walls  of  the  dining-room  were  cov- 
ered with  a  grayish  paper  representing  the  conquest  of 
India  by  the  English,  and  might  have  served  as  an  illus- 
tration for  the  wars  of  Nizam  de  M^ry,  by  reason  of  the 
melange  of  lords  and  brahmins,  ladies  and  bayaderes,  of 
caleclies  and  palanquins,  of  horses  and  elephants,  of  half- 
naked  peons  and  liveried  lacqueys,  of  sepoys  and  of  horse- 
guards,  which  make  this  tapestry  an  Indian  encyclopedia 
very  pleasant  to  consult  while  waiting  for  the  soup. 
Some  facetious  artists  have  taken  the  liberty  of  provid- 
ing a  mustache  for  the  chief  bayadere,  a  pipe  for  Lady 
William  Bentinck,  a  calico  bonnet  for  the  Governor, 
and  a  queue  for  the  venerable  chief  of  the  bandits, 
but  these  facetious  decorations  do  not  destroy  the 
general  harmony.  This  Indo-Anglican  wall  paper  also 
does  duty  as  a  register,  and  receives  the  names  of  the 
travelers. 

The  descents  become  more  and  more  rapid ;  the  val- 
ley through  which  the  road  winds  strangles  itself  in  a 
gorge  ;  the  mountains  at  the  sides  are  frightfully  steep  ; 
the  rocks  are  abrupt,  perpendicular  —  sometimes,  even, 
they  overhang  the  road.  Their  walls,  which  threaten 
to  fall  at  every  moment,  show  clearly  that  they  yielded 
a  passage  after  long  resistance,  and  that  it  was  neces- 
[     37     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

sary  to  burn  much  powder  in  order  to  secure  the  right  of 
way  through  them.  The  colors  grow  darker,  and  the 
light  now  penetrates  with  the  greatest  difficulty  to  the 
bottom  of  these  narrow  cuts.  Some  spots  of  a  sombre 
green,  almost  black,  which  are  forests  of  fir  trees,  speckle 
the  fawn- colored  rocks  like  a  tiger's  skin,  and  give  them 
a  ferocious  aspect.  The  torrents  become  cascades,  and 
at  the  bottom  of  the  gigantic  fissures,  which  seem  the 
result  of  the  stroke  of  a  Titan's  axe,  the  Doveria  roars 
and  tumbles  like  a  river  in  a  rage,  and  rolls  along  with 
it,  on  its  course,  blocks  of  granite,  enormous  stones,  earth 
in  a  state  of  fusion,  and  a  whitish  smoke  instead  of  water ; 
its  bed  much  wider  than  the  stream,  and  in  which  it  wal- 
lows and  convulsively  tears  itself  to  pieces,  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  street  in  a  Cyclopean  city  after  an  earthquake  ; 
it  is  a  chaos  of  rocks,  of  blocks  of  marble,  of  fragments  of 
mountain  which  assume  the  aspect  of  entablatures,  of 
architraves,  of  pieces  of  columns  and  fragments  of  walls  ; 
in  other  places  white  stones  form  immense  ossuaries  ;  one 
might  imagine  that  cemeteries  of  mastodons  and  of  ante- 
diluvian animals  had  been  uncovered  by  the  passage  of 
the  waters.  All  is  ruin,  ravage,  desolation,  menace  and 
peril ;  the  uprooted  trees  are  split  in  pieces  like  wisps 
of  straw,  the  rocks  sucked  in  by  the  flood  strike  against 
each  other  with  a  terrible  noise,  and  yet  we  are  in  the 
mild  season  of  the  year.  In  winter  the  passage  must  be 
almost  impossible  and  very  formidable.  We  would  sug- 
gest that  the  decorators  who  desire  to  paint  a  wild  and 
weird  forge  for  the  casting  of  the  bullets  of  the  Frey- 
schiitz  come  and  make  some  sketches  in  the  valley  of 
Gondo. 

This  Doveria,  however  furious  and  devouring  it  may 
be,  has  nevertheless  performed  great  services ;  man, 
without  its  aid,  would  not  have  been  able  to  cut  a 
path  through  these  colossal  masses  of  I'ock.  With  its 
water,  which  suffers  no  obstacles,  it  has  broken  the  road 

[     38     ] 


THE  RIVER   DOVERIA 

On  the  Simplon  Pass 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

for  the  engineer.  Its  course  is  a  rough  outline  of  the 
pass.  Torrent  and  pass  go  side  by  side  assiduously.  In 
so  far  as  it  is  the  torrent  which  encroaches  upon  the 
pass,  just  so  far  is  it  the  pass  which  encroaches  upon 
the  torrent.  Sometimes  a  rock  opposes  a  gigantic  ram- 
part which  cannot  be  surmounted  or  got  round,  in  which 
case  a  gallery  dug  in  the  rock  with  chisel  and  mine 
overcomes  the  difficulty. 

The  gallery  of  Gondo,  pierced  by  two  openings  which 
would  furnish  most  admirable  caverns  for  a  melodi-ama, 
is  one  of  the  longest  in  existence  after  that  of  Algaby, 
which  is  two  hundred  feet  long.  It  bears,  at  one  end, 
this  brief  and  fitting  inscription:  "^e?'6  Italo.  1795. 
Nap-Imp. ^^ 

Near  this  place  the  Frasinine  and  two  torrents  which 
come  from  the  glaciers  of  Rosboden  precipitate  them- 
selves into  the  abyss  with  an  astonishing  noise  and  fury. 
The  road  follows  a  cornice  projecting  over  the  chasm. 
The  walls  of  rocks  approach  close  to  each  other,  rugged, 
bristling,  beetling,  black,  out  of  plumb,  and  only  per- 
mitting a  narrow  strip  of  sky  to  be  seen  between  their 
summits,  two  thousand  feet  high,  and  which  shines  as 
far  away  from  you  as  hope.  Below  is  night,  cold,  death  ; 
no  ray  of  sunlight  ever  reaches  there.  It  is  the  most 
wildly  picturesque  spot  of  the  whole  pass. 

Across  this  disorder  of  nature  it  rolls,  turns  almost  at 
a  right  angle  and  very  suddenly.  Although  in  Spain 
we  have  thrice  descended  this  sort  of  momitain,  which 
is  called  the  Descarga,  at  a  full  gallop,  in  the  midst  of 
cries  of  the  driver,  in  a  fusillade  of  cuts  of  the  whip,  and 
of  objurgations,  we  could  not  rid  ourselves  of  feehng  as 
though  we  were  tumbling  down  on  three  wheels  (the 
fourth  being  held  by  the  brake)  the  whole  length  of  ex- 
tremely steep  declines  unfurnished  with  parapets  at  al- 
most all  the  dangerous  places.  It  seemed  as  though  we 
should  be  overturned  every  minute  ;  nevertheless  we  were 

[     39     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

not,  and  the  tops  of  the  larches  or  of  the  rocks  which  rise 
up  from  the  bottom  of  the  abyss  were  deprived  of  the 
pleasure  of  empaling  us.  In  the  winter  season  sledges 
are  used,  and,  say  the  guides,  if  the  sledge  slips  into  the 
gulf,  one  has  time  to  jump  to  one  side.  Blessed  privi- 
lege I 

After  crossing  strong  bridges,  tremendous  tunnels, 
one  of  which  carries  all  the  weight  of  the  mountain  on 
a  pile  of  masonry,  we  come  to  a  region  somewhat  less 
enclosed.  The  valley  becomes  wider,  the  Doveria  spreads 
itself  more  at  its  ease,  the  piled-up  clouds  and  fogs  scat- 
ter into  light  fleeces.  Light  comes  more  generously  from 
the  sky ;  that  gray,  green,  hard,  and  glacial  tint  which 
characterizes  the  Alpine  horrors,  is  warmed  up  a  bit ;  a 
few  houses  gather  courage  and  poke  their  noses  across 
biuiches  of  trees  on  the  less  steep  grades,  and  presently 
we  arrive  at  Isella,  a  little  village  where  we  find  the  first 
Piedmontese  customhouse. 

The  customhouse  is  a  building  enclosed  by  a  portico 
with  arcades  supported  by  columns  of  gray  granite.  On 
the  wall  we  notice  a  solar  dial  in  a  state  of  desuetude, 
since  the  beams  of  the  planet  can  never  reach  it.  It 
bears  the  following  inscription  :  "  Torna^  tornando  il  so/, 
Vomhra  smarrita,  ma  non  ritorna ;piu  Vetafuggita'''' — the 
vanished  shadow  returns  when  the  sun  returns,  but  van- 
ished age  never  returns.  The  Italian  concetto  plays  in 
philosophic  thought  upon  torna,  tornando,  ritorna.  Ah  ! 
how  much  more  simply  terrible  was  the  warning  once 
given  us  by  the  dial  of  the  Church  of  Irrugue  of  the 
flight  of  the  hours,  in  approaching  the  Spanish  frontier: 
"  Vulnerant  omnes,  ulterior  necat  " —  all  wound,  the  last 
kills.  Dials  and  hands,  we  listen  to  your  words,  and 
we  have  engraved  on  our  seal :  "  Vivere  memento  " — re- 
member to  live.  In  passing  before  you,  we  hasten 
our  steps,  even  though  fatigued,  and  though  it  might 
be  a  pleasant  place  for  us  in  which  to  pitch  our  tent ; 

[     40     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

for  we   understand  that  we   must  hasten   to  visit   that 
country  in  whose  vast  net  we  shall  soon  be  enclosed. 

The  landscape  brightens  and  becomes  cheerful.  Wag- 
ons and  ox-carts  come  and  go ;  the  peasants  turn  out 
into  the  side  paths ;  the  women,  quite  pretty,  wearing  a 
large  red  band  at  the  bottom  of  their  skirts,  stare  at  us 
out  of  their  big  Southern  eyes.  There  are  white  villas  ; 
some  bell-towers  rise  amid  waves  of  green ;  the  vine  dis- 
plays itself  in  garlands,  in  festoons ;  we  feel,  by  reason  of 
a  certain  elegance  in  our  environment,  that  we  are  no 
longer  in  Switzerland.  The  Doveria  continues  to  roll 
along  in  its  stony  bed,  but  at  a  respectful  distance,  Hke 
a  rough  and  uncouth  companion  who  prefers  to  leave 
you  at  the  city's  gate ;  nevertheless,  the  appearance  of 
the  embankment,  which  is  here  and  there  strewn  with 
large  boulders,  —  an  arch  of  a  bridge  carried  away  by  the 
flood,  —  testifies  to  its  bad  character.  Napoleon,  who 
built  it  for  eternity,  could  not  make  the  bridge  suffi- 
ciently solid  to  withstand  the  blows  inflicted  by  the 
torrent.     This  lovely  valley  is  called  Dovearo. 

A  singular  characteristic,  not  at  all  Italian,  at  least 
according  to  our  Northeiui  ideas,  is  the  umbrella,  the 
patriarchal  old  umbrella,  carried  by  all  the  people  we 
met,  men,  women,  and  children  ;  the  beggar  himself  has 
his  umbrella.     We  well  understand  why. 

At  the  last  turn  of  the  road  appears  a  chapel  watch- 
ing over  a  cemetery;  then  we  reach  the  bridge  of 
Crevola,  which  brings  to  an  end  marvelously  all  the  won- 
ders of  the  Simplon. 

This  bridge,  which  has  two  arches  supported  by  a 
pier  and  abutments,  is  of  an  enormous  height  (the  cross 
of  a  church  beneath  it  reaches  .scarcely  to  the  balustrade), 
and  encompasses  the  valley  of  Domo  d'Ossola,  which 
can  be  seen  from  it  in  its  entirety.  Alongside  the  bridge, 
a  wooden  foot-bridge  thrown  across  the  Doveria  is  used  to 
connect  the  houses  of  the  town  scattered  upon  both  banks. 
[     41     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

Italy  presents  itself  to  us  under  an  unexpected  aspect. 
Instead  of  a  sky  of  azure,  the  warm  and  orange-colored 
tones  we  had  dreamed  of,  —  forgetting  that  after  all  the 
Italy  of  the  North  cannot  have  the  climate  of  Naples,  — 
we  encountered  a  cloudy  sky,  mountains  veiled  in  mists, 
perspectives  bathed  in  a  bluish  fog,  a  damp  landscape, 
verdurous,  velvety,  worthy  to  be  sung  by  a  Lake  poet. 
While  not  affording  the  picture  we  had  fancied,  that  which 
was  before  our  eyes  was  nevertheless  very  beautiful ;  these 
mountains  with  clouds  dissolving  into  rain ;  these  green 
plains  sown  with  villas;  this  road  bordered  by  houses 
festooned  with  vines  propped  up  by  pillars  of  granite ; 
these  gardens,  enclosed  by  stone  slabs  which  encircle 
them,  formed,  in  spite  of  the  storms,  a  pleasing  and 
magnificent  whole.  Each  detail  of  construction  already 
revealed  an  appreciation  of  beauty  and  a  regard  for  form 
which  exists  neither  in  France  nor  Switzerland. 

We  approached  Domo  d'Ossola,  where  we  encoun- 
tered a  driving  rain,  which,  for  the  reasons  already 
given,  did  not  take  us  unawares.  The  square  market- 
place of  Domo  d'Ossola  is  quite  picturesque  with  its 
arcade  supported  by  columns,  its  jutting  balconies  and 
overhanging  roofs,  its  pillared  galleries,  and  its  pavilions 
surmounted  by  weather  vanes. 

The  inn  at  which  the  stage-coach  halted  was  deco- 
rated in  the  Italian  fashion,  with  huge  frescoes,  or 
rather,  distempered  daubs  representing  landscapes,  inter- 
mingled with  palm  trees  and  exotic  plants.  Around  the 
central  court  runs,  as  in  the  Spanish  Patio,  a  gallery 
with  grayish  columns.  It  was  now  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  and  we  were  to  leave  at  two  in  the  morning, 
and  it  rained  as  though  a  new  deluge  was  beginning. 

We  had  dined  at  the  village  of  Simplon,  and  therefore 
the  resource  of  passing  time  at  table  was  interdicted. 
We  asked  the  hotel  waiter  if  perchance  there  was  any 
play  to  be  seen  in  the  town. 

[     42     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

The  theatre  was  closed,  and  the  master  of  marionettes 
had  brought  his  performance  to  a  close  that  very  even- 
ing ;  but  he  had  not  yet  left  Domo  d'Ossola.  The  idea 
occurred  to  us  of  organizing  a  performance  for  our- 
selves alone ;  and  so,  accompanied  by  a  guide  who  re- 
garded us  as  lunatics,  plunging  through  the  rain-drops, 
we  sought  the  marionettist.  Walking  along  we  tried 
to  grasp  some  of  the  chief  features  of  the  town.  By 
the  failing  light  of  day  one  could  still  distinguish 
pious  paintings  on  the  walls,  highly-colored  statuettes 
of  the  Madonna,  lighted  by  lamps. 

One  of  these  frescoes  jfiad  for  its  subject  the  Holy 
Virgin  extricating  souls  from  Purgatory,  accompanied 
by  Saint  Gervais  and  Saint  Protais.  These  representa- 
tions are  frequent  in  the  streets  and  along  the  roads  in 
Italy ;  at  every  step  one  encounters  little  shrines  de- 
picting Calvaries  in  relief  and  au  naturel,  Our  Lady, 
Guardian  Angels,  or  devotions  peculiar  to  the  country. 
The  marionettist  was  not  at  home  ;  he  had  gone  to  sup 
at  the  Osteria,  and  in  spite  of  the  cruelty  of  disturbing 
the  poor  man  when  about  to  drink  his  bottle  of  red 
wine  and  eat  a  little  fried  polenta,  we  kept  up  our  cour- 
age to  the  end  of  our  caprice,  and  Luciano  Zane  (that 
was  the  name  of  the  impressario)  consented  for  twenty 
francs  to  give  us  a  special  performance,  charmed,  though 
a  trifle  surprised  at  the  idea.  He  demanded  an  hour 
in  which  to  assemble  his  orchestra,  summon  his  assist- 
ant, clothe  his  actors,  arrange  his  decorations,  and  to 
illuminate  the  hall. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  in  the  rain  which  had  not 
ceased,  we  repaired  to  the  theatre.  An  argand  lamp, 
placed  close  by  a  billboard  on  which  we  read  "  Si  re- 
cita,"  indicated  the  entrance.  The  gamins  of  the  town, 
whom  we  had  permitted  to  attend,  occupied  the  benches, 
and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  their  black  eyes  sparkle 
and  their  pretty  red  lips  break  into  laughter  by  the 

[     43     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

light  of  the  lamps  which  were  doubled  in  brilliancy  by 
the  mirror  placed  behind  them  as  a  reflector.  Nothing 
could  be  more  simple  than  this  playhouse,  which  con- 
sisted of  four  whitewashed  walls,  some  benches,  a 
wooden  gallery  and  a  stage,  raised  three  or  four  feet 
above  the  body  of  the  theatre.  The  curtain,  owing  to  a 
vague  memory  of  art  which  has  never  died  out  in  Italy, 
was  a  copy  of  the  famous  fresco  of  the  Aurora  of  Guido, 
wliich  is  to  be  seen  in  the  Rospigliosi  palace,  and  the 
engraving  of  which  is  so  popular,  but  in  the  strangest 
imaginable  Etruscan  and  Carib  taste. 

The  orchestra,  composed  of  four  typical  musicians, 
one  of  whom  bravely  beat  time  with  his  foot,  played  a 
brief  overture,  and  the  curtain  was  raised  to  our  great 
satisfaction  and  to  that  of  the  little  village  girls,  who 
stood  up  in  order  to  see  better. 

The  first  performance  was  that  of  Girolamo,  calife 
pour  vingt-quatre  heures,  ovles  Vivants  qui  font  semhlant 
cCetre  riiort ;  it  is  the  stoiy  of  the  "Thousand  and  One 
Nights,"  brought  into  the  palace  by  Haroun-al-Raschid 
and  his  faithful  Giaffir,  mixed  up  with  a  comic  opera 
plot,  which  Messrs.  Scribe  and  Saint  George  would  not 
have  been  ashamed  of,  and  of  which  perhaps  they  are 
the  authors.  Girolamo,  who  speaks  the  Piedmontese 
dialect,  while  the  other  actors  use  pure  Italian,  wore  a 
French  coat  of  the  color  of  raisin  de  Corinthe,  a  dis- 
ordered peruke,  with  a  grotesquely  cork-screwed  queue. 
His  mask  was  grinning,  his  mouth  twisted,  his  eyes 
starting  from  his  head ;  he  sputtered,  gesticulated,  and 
acted  like  one  possessed.  Girolamo  is  a  type  which  is 
met  with  in  several  plays,  as  for  instance,  "  Girolamo, 
the  Music  Master;"  "Girolamo,  the  Physician  in  Spite 
of  Himself."  He  is  a  sort  of  Sganarelle,  but  more  sub- 
tle, more  spicy,  less  dull.  In  certain  parts  he  resem- 
bles Mayeux ;  he  is  sensual,  seductive,  a  cheat,  if  neces- 
sary, and  adds  to  it  all  a  certain  stamp  of  stupidity  and 

[     44     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

rusticity  which  the  marionettist  who  animates  this  ne,r- 
vis  alienis  mobile  lignum  makes  very  sensibly  felt,  and 
each  entrance  of  Girolamo  is  greeted  with  shouts  of 
laughter. 

It  was  a  strange  spectacle,  and  one  which  very  soon 
assumed  a  distinguishing  reahty,  though  only  a  per- 
formance of  marionettes. 

Never  did  caricaturist  sketch  a  more  bitter  parody 
of  life. 

Hogarth,  Cruickshank,  Goya,  Daumier,  Gavarni,  did 
not  attain  to  such  a  height  of  involuntary  irony. 

How  many  celebrated  actors  would  have  blushed  in 
spite  of  themselves  had  they  seen  their  gestures,  manoeu- 
vres, and  faults,  their  poses,  which  they  had  studied  be- 
fore the  mirror,  repeated  with  a  mechanical  stupidity 
more  cruel  than  all  the  criticisms  in  the  world. 

Was  it  not,  on  the  other  hand,  the  w^hole  secret  of 
the  human  comedy  ?  Here  were  some  dozens  of  automa- 
tons, without  life  or  spirit,  bits  of  wood  in  motley  tat- 
ters, to  whom  two  or  three  liidden  hands  gave  a  phantom 
of  existence,  and  caused  to  speak,  as  they  wished  them 
to,  with  voices  which  were  not  in  their  own  throats. 

Luciano  Zane  and  his  assistant  made  Girolamo, 
Haroun-al-Raschid,  Giaffir  and  the  other  personages 
converse  ;  a  woman's  voice  of  contralto  timbre  lent  its 
organ  to  the  princess  and  to  the  odalisques ;  this  voice 
was  that  of  Luciano  Zane's  wife,  perched  on  a  bench 
behind  the  curtain  alongside  of  her  husband. 

The  decorations  were  not  badly  done,  and  resembled, 
through  the  exaggeration  of  the  perspective,  the  well- 
known  optical  views  for  children.  The  interior  of  the 
palace  of  the  caliph  showed  efforts  of  the  imagination 
to  attain  to  Oriental  splendor;  some  negroes  carry- 
ing torches  served  as  caryatides.  The  chief  play  was 
followed  by  a  mythological  ballet,  the  Vengeance  of 
Medea,  in  which  the  choreographers  had  not  regarded  the 

[     45     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

precept  of  Horace  to  the  effect  that  Medea  should  not 
devour  her  children  m  public,  since  the  magician  immo- 
lated with  the  most  savage  fury  two  little  puppets  on 
springs,  and  formed  a  tableau  which  in  no  way  resembled 
the  picture  of  Eugene  Delacroix. 

In  order  not  to  annoy  certain  dancers  of  our  acquaint- 
ance, we  will  not  describe  the  7:»«s  seul  and  jias  de  deux 
of  the  principal  performers,  who  fully  equalled  Saint 
Leon  in  the  matter  of  elevation. 

The  ballet  finished,  we  went  behind  the  stage.  Luci- 
ano Zane  showed  us  his  repertoire  composed  of  several 
manuscripts  in  Italian,  with  an  interlinear  translation 
in  dialect ;  his  actors  and  their  wardrobe  were  stowed 
away  in  drawers ;  he  had  there,  reposing  side  by  side 
in  perfect  accord,  the  high  priest,  the  king,  the  queen, 
the  princess,  the  caliph,  Girolamo,  the  genius  of  good, 
the  genius  of  evil,  Death,  David,  and  Goliath,  the  gallant 
and  his  dame,  —  all  the  personages  of  that  little  automa- 
ton world,  —  the  glittering  dresses  covered  with  span- 
gles and  gewgaws. 

This  sight  made  us  think  of  the  beginning  of  the 
memoirs  of  Wilhelm  Meister,  where  he  narrates  his 
childish  passion  for  marionettes,  and  of  the  evening  on 
which  he  took  to  Marianne,  the  comedienne,  with  whom 
he  was  in  love,  and  who  perhaps  expected  another  sort 
of  gift,  the  little  figures  which  had  so  amused  his  youth 
and  which  had  developed  in  him  a  taste  for  the  theatre. 
He  explained  at  length  the  character  and  use  of  each 
puppet  to  the  young  woman,  who  glanced  toward  the 
bed  from  time  to  time,  and  ended  by  going  to  sleep  on 
his  shoulder ;  a  wise  hint  by  which  we  ourselves  may 
well  profit. 

We  returned  enchanted  with  Luciano  Zane,  who 
writes  his  plays  himself,  paints  his  decorations,  models 
and  clothes  his  marionettes,  until  we  were  informed 
that  the  really  great  genius  of  this  sort,  the  illustrious, 

[     46     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

incomparable  master  of  the  art  was  a  certain  Famiola 
de  Varallo,  a  wonderful  man,  whose  marionettes  opened 
and  closed  their  eyes  and  mouths,  who  does  not  recite, 
but  improvises  and  makes  political  allusions  of  an  un- 
heard-of audacity  and  finesse ;  altogether  a  charming 
man,  full  of  wit,  who  addi-esses  to  the  women,  of  whom 
his  theatre  is  always  full,  a  thousand  hon  mots  and  jokes 
which  make  them  laugh  till  they  cry.  We  were  told 
that  he  had  represented  the  capture  of  Peschiera  with 
guns,  cannon,  and  soldiers  in  correct  uniform,  that  he 
has  perfect  danseuses  with  whom  all  the  men  in  the 
audience  fall  violently  in  love  when  they  dance  the 
Saltarelle ;  in  a  word,  that  Famiola  is  the  greatest  man 
in  the  world ;  he  has  only  one  defect,  which  is  that  he 
is  at  present  at  Palenza,  on  Lake  Maggiore,  from  whence 
he  is  about  to  depart.  We  were  already  thinking  of  in- 
terrupting our  journey  and  going  in  pursuit  of  Famiola, 
and  of  following  him  to  the  end  of  the  world  after  hav- 
ing found  him,  when  someone  comes  to  tell  us  that  it 
is  time  to  climb  into  the  stage-coach. 

Instead  of  following  Famiola,  as  we  wished,  we 
started  for  Milan.  This  was  the  wiser  course ;  but, 
rolling  along  in  the  darkness,  we  all  the  while  beheld 
again  the  beautiful  marionettes,  who  made  extravagant 
gestures  and  caracoled  across  the  vista  of  our  dreams. 


[     47     ] 


CHAPTER    IV 

LAKE    MAGGIORE— SESTO-CALENDE  — 
MILAN 


THE  rain  continued,  and  the  confused  light  of 
dawn  was  swallowed  up  in  clouds  lying  so  low 
as  almost  to  touch  the  ground,  and  were  con- 
founded with  the  vapors  that  rose  from  the  earth.  We 
crossed  twice,  on  ferry-boats,  a  little  torrential  stream, 
already  swollen  by  the  storm,  and  when  day  appeared, 
we  were  on  the  shore  of  Lake  ]\Iaggiore,  near  Baveno. 
The  water,  disturbed  by  the  bad  weather  of  the  night, 
was  considerably  ruffled  and  the  lake  put  on  airs  by  rais- 
ing billows  like  the  sea.  Nevertheless,  the  sky  became 
clear ;  but  great  black  and  gray  clouds  remained  piled 
upon  the  mountains  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake.  The 
mountains,  of  a  healthy  color,  which  they  owe  to  the 
vegetation  which  covers  them,  and  which  gives  them  an 
appearance  similar  to  that  of  ]\Iount  Rosa,  or  the  Simp- 
Ion  and  the  Saint  Gothard,  are  sublime  at  the  base  of 
the  perspective ;  their  reflections  give  a  brown  tint  to 
the  water ;  and  the  landscape  is  severe  ;  Lake  Mag- 
giore,  which  we  had  pictured  as  a  cup  of  gold  filled  with 
blue,  was  an  evil  and  tempestuous  menace.  We  found 
beauty  where  we  had  expected  grace. 

The  road  hems  the  lake  and  the  waves  lick  the  cause- 
way. We  pass  an  interminable  succession  of  gardens 
and  villas  with  white  peristyles,  roofs  with  round  tiles, 
and  terraces  garlanded  with  luxuriant  vines,  supported 
by  props  of  granite.  Granite  takes  the  place  of  the  fir 
tree  with  us.  Fences  are  made  of  it  as  well  as  stakes 
and  even  planks,  and  still  oftener  flagstones,  on  which 

[     48     ] 


LAGO  MAGGIOUE 

The  Borromeo  Islands 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

the  washerwomen  cleanse  the  linen  on  the  border  of  the 
lake,  upon  their  knees,  as  though  begging  pardon  of  it  for 
this  outrage.  On  these  terraces,  often  of  several  gradi- 
ents and  which  form  embankments  for  carefully  culti- 
vated gardens,  all  kinds  of  flowers  and  shrubs  bloom. 
We  noticed  there,  on  several  occasions,  and  greatl}''  to 
our  astonishment,  since  it  was  the  first  time  we  had 
encountered  this  oddity,  massive  giant  hortensias,  which, 
in  place  of  having  that  rose  or  mauve  shade  which  is 
habitual  to  them  m  France,  display  tints  of  a  charming 
azure ;  these  blue  hortensias  have  often  surprised  us, 
since  blue  is  the  chimera  of  the  horticulturists  who  seek 
without  ever  finding  a  blue  tulip,  a  blue  rose  or  a  blue 
dahlia,  the  number  of  flowers  of  that  color  being  ex- 
tremely restricted.  We  have  written  this  in  fear  and 
trembling  lest  we  shall  be  upbraided  by  Alphonse  Karr, 
who  is  not  indulgent  to  the  botanical  ignorance  of 
litterateurs.  But  the  hortensias  of  Lake  IMaggiore  are 
incontestably  blue.  We  were  told  that  they  had  been 
obtained  by  making  them  grow  in  earth  of  heather. 
This  was  the  recipe  of  the  gardener  of  the  Boromean 
Isles,  and  must  be  a  good  one  ;  for  all  these  hortensias, 
the  color  of  the  sky,  are  magnificent.  The  same  result 
can  also  be  obtained  by  sprinkling  the  earth  with  soda. 

The  Borromean  Isles,  three  in  number,  Isle  of  Madre, 
Isle  of  Bella,  Isle  of  the  Fishermen,  are  situated  near 
the  northern  end  of  the  lake,  which  is  shaped  like 
a  horn,  the  small  end  of  which  points  towards  Domo 
d'lsola. 

These  isles  were  originally  bare  and  sterile  rocks. 
Prince  Borromeo  caused  vegetable  earths  to  be  conveyed 
to  them  and  gardens  constructed,  whose  reputation  is 
European.  We  say  "constructed"  designedly,  for 
masonry  plays  an  important  role  in  their  designs,  as  in 
almost  all  Italian  gardens,  which  are  much  rather  bits  of 
architecture  than  gardens. 

[     49     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

More  marble  is  planted  in  them  than  shrubs,  and 
Vignole  has  had  more  to  do  with  this  construction  than 
Le  Notre  or  la  Quintinie.  The  Isle  of  Madre,  as  well 
as  the  Isle  of  Bella,  is  composed  of  a  superposition  of 
terraces  in  recoil  upon  which  a  palace  looks  down.  The 
Isle  of  Bella,  which  can  be  very  distinctly  seen  from  the 
road,  is  adorned  with  small  towers,  pinnacles,  statues, 
fountains,  porticoes,  colonnades,  vases,  and  architec- 
tural decoration  of  the  richest  style.  Even  such  trees 
as  the  cypress,  orange,  myrtle,  lemon,  cedar,  and  Canada 
pine  are  to  be  found ;  but  vegetation  is  evidently  only 
an  accessory.  The  simple  idea  of  putting  in  a  garden 
of  verdure,  some  flowers  and  sod  is  an  idea  of  very  modern 
origin,  like  all  natural  ideas.  A  little  farther  off,  is  the  Isle 
of  the  Fishermen,  which  insists  that  its  arcaded  houses, 
whose  rustic  appearance  forms  a  happy  contrast  with  the 
somewhat  pretentious  pomp  of  the  Isle  of  Madre  and  the 
Isle  of  Bella,  shall  bathe  their  feet  in  the  waters  of  the  lake. 

These  isles  have  been  the  subjects  of  enthusiastic 
descriptions  which  are  not  justified,  as  seen  from  the 
shore.  The  seven  terraces  of  the  Isle  of  Bella,  terminated 
by  a  unicorn  or  Pegasus,  have  a  theatrical  aspect  which 
scarcely  accords  with  the  word  humilitasy  the  device 
adopted  by  the  Bori'omeos,  which  is  found  inscribed 
upon  the  isle  on  every  side.  The  Isle  of  Madre  and  its 
five  embankments,  supporting  a  square  castle,  fatigue  the 
eye  with  too  great  regularity,  and  one  is  astonished  that 
they  should  have  been  so  warmly  praised.  We  found 
on  this  isle  the  ideal  and  prototype  of  the  French  gar- 
den as  it  existed  in  the  days  of  Louis  XIV,  and  such 
as  Antoine,  the  gardener  of  Boileau,  would  have  loved. 
Romantic  imaginations,  without  any  disparagement  to 
Rousseau,  who  wished  to  lodge  his  Julie  there,  will  do 
well  to  seek  another  site  in  which  to  domicile  their 
heroines ;  these  isles  would  be  more  pleasing  to  the 
princesses  of  Mme.  de  Lafayette. 

[     50     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

It  is  at  Belgirata,  a  little  this  side  of  Arona,  that 
Manzoni  lives,  the  illustrious  author  of  Fromessi  sposi. 
He  is  often  to  be  seen  seated  before  his  door,  in  full  view 
of  the  lake,  watching  the  travelers  as  they  pass.  He 
has  a  benevolent,  venerable,  and  distinguished  bearing, 
and  in  his  spare  meagreness  of  feature  reminds  one  of 
M.  de  Lamartine.  Every  day,  one  of  his  friends,  a  pro- 
found metaphysician  and  philosopher,  goes  to  his  house 
to  discuss  with  him  those  great  questions  of  man's  origin 
and  destiny  which  can  never  be  solved  here  below,  since 
they  deal  with  the  loftiest  mysteries  of  the  soul. 

The  lake  and  the  road  are  very  animated :  the  lake 
on  account  of  the  fishing-boats  aud  steamers  which  ply 
between  Sesto-Calende  and  Bellinzona  ;  the  road,  with 
its  ox-carts,  carriages,  and  pedestrians  armed  with  the 
inevitable  umbrella. 

The  country  women,  sometimes  pretty,  are  afflicted, 
as  they  are  in  Valais,  with  goitres,  produced  probably  by 
the  same  causes, — the  vicinage  of  the  mountains  and  the 
snow-water, — similar  causes  producing  similar  effects. 

In  approaching  Arona  we  discover,  upon  a  hill  on 
the  right,  the  colossal  statue  of  Saint  Charles  Borromeo, 
overlooking  the  lake  ;  it  is,  after  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes 
and  that  of  Nero  at  the  Maison  Doree,  the  grandest 
statue  ever  executed. 

The  saint,  posed  in  a  majestic  yet  simple  attitude, 
holds  a  book  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  seems  to 
bless  the  country  lying  at  his  feet,  and  which  is  under 
his  protection. 

One  can  climb  up  to  the  head  of  this  colossus,  which 
is  of  wrought  and  cast-iron,  by  a  stairwa}',  contrived  in 
the  body  of  masonry  with  which  the  interior  is  filled. 
This  gigantic  statue,  which  emerges  little  by  little  from 
the  woods  with  which  it  is  sm-rounded,  and  ends  by 
dominating  the  horizon  like  a  solitary  watcher,  produces 
a  singular  effect. 

[     51    ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

Arona,  where  we  stop  for  breakfast,  has  a  thoroughly 
Spanish  air.  The  houses  have  projecting  roofs  and  bal- 
conies, bars  at  the  lower  windows,  and  ^Madonnas  on 
the  walls. 

The  church,  which  we  did  not  have  time  to  visit, 
contains  some  fine  paintings  of  Gaudenzio  Vinci,  and 
reminds  one  of  the  Spanish  churches.  In  the  inn,  we 
once  more  find  the  interior  court  adorned  with  columns 
and  galleries,  as  in  Andalusia,  and  a  host  of  other  points 
of  similarity  which  impressed  us. 

The  lake  ends  at  Sesto-Calende,  and  here  the  Tessin 
hurls  itself  into  Lake  ]\Iaggiore.  Sesto-Calende  is  on 
the  opposite  shore,  and  we  crossed  the  river  on  a  ferry- 
boat, as  the  road  to  Milan  passes  through  that  little 
town.  While  oui-  carriage  was  being  put  on  board  the 
narrow  boat,  a  little,  fantastic,  grimacing  old  man,  with 
head  bowed  and  fingers  making  extravagant  shifts, 
played  upon  a  violin,  which  was  not  a  Cremona,  despite 
the  neighborhood,  a  popular  air  with  a  melody  which 
was  at  the  same  time  joyous  and  melancholy.  Encour- 
aged by  a  small  coin,  he  continued  playing  the  entire  time 
occupied  by  the  crossing,  and  thus  we  entered  Sesto- 
Calende  to  the  sound  of  music,  a  very  imposing  entree. 

Sesto-Calende  pleased  us  greatly.  It  was  market  day, 
a  favorable  circumstance  for  the  traveler ;  for  a  market 
brings  from  the  depths  of  the  country  a  crowd  of  char- 
acteristic peasants  whom  it  would  be  otherwise  difficult 
to  see. 

The  majority  of  the  women  had  an  original  coiffure 
which  was  of  a  charming  effect ;  the  hair  plaited  and 
coiled  carefully  about  the  nape  of  the  neck,  is  fastened 
by  thirty  or  forty  silver  pins,  arranged  in  the  form  of 
an  aureole,  which  has  the  same  effect  as  the  teeth  of  a 
comb ;  a  larger  pin  adorned  at  both  its  ends  with  enor- 
mous olives  made  of  metal  and  passed  through  the  hair, 
which  is  twisted  behind,  completes  this  ornamentation, 

[     52     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

which  reminded  us  of  the  women  of  Valencia.  These 
pins,  called  spontoni,  are  expensive,  and  yet  we  have  seen 
poor  women  and  young  girls  with  bare  and  dusty  feet 
wearing  this  head-dress ;  they  are  doubtless  compelled 
to  sacrifice  to  this  luxury  articles  of  the  utmost  necessity. 

But  is  not  the  first  necessity  for  a  woman  to  make 
herself  beautiful,  and  are  not  silver  pins  of  more  impor- 
tance than  shoes?  We  were  so  charmed  not  to  see  on 
their  heads  those  horrid  cotton  handkerchiefs,  such  as 
they  had  a  right  to  wear  according  to  the  prevailing 
fasliion,  that  we  could  have  embraced  them  for  pure 
love  of  the  costume  ;  pretty  girls  know  a  thing  or  two. 

The  men,  although  very  badly  clothed,  did  not  wear 
blouses,  a  refinement  which  pleased  us  and  compensated 
for  the  deep  grief  we  experienced  in  unexpectedly  en- 
countering this  hideous  garment  in  the  province  of 
Guipuscoa,  where  we  went  last  year  on  our  way  to  the 
races  at  Bilbao. 

The  tiled,  overhanging  roofs,  the  whitewashed  walls, 
the  windows  with  a  network  of  iron  gratings,  make  Sesto- 
Calende  much  more  like  Irun  or  Fontarabia  than  we 
could  have  believed  possible  ;  the  baskets  filled  with 
watermelons,  pumpkins,  or  tomatoes  have  an  aspect 
which  is  altogether  Southern.  The  annual  painting  of 
the  walls  of  the  houses  has  respected  the  frescoes,  some 
of  which  are  quite  ancient,  and  Avhich  represent  pious 
subjects.  One  of  these  paintings  which  met  our  eyes 
in  coming  off  the  ferry-boat  of  the  Tessin,  is  a  Madonna 
carrying  the  infant  Jesus  in  her  arms.  An  inscription, 
which  we  copied,  gave  the  date  of  it :  "  Roc  ojyus  fecit 
fieri  A7itoniv.s  Varallv.s,  XIII  Mars.  1561}-^  We  noticed, 
also,  on  the  apse  of  the  church  a  Christ  in  a  skirt,  Hke 
the  Christ  of  Burgos. 

The  Austrian  domination  begins  at  Sesto-Calende. 
The  other  shore  of  the  lake  is  Piedmontese.  It  was  at 
Sesto-Calende  that  we  encountered,  for  the  first  time,  the 
[     53      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

tight  blue  pantaloons  and  the  white  tunic  of  the  Hunga- 
rians, a  uniform  numerous  examples  of  which  will  be 
found  in  the  Lombard-Venetian  realm  which  we  are 
about  to  visit. 

Our  stage-coach  was  visited  but  very  perfunctorily, 
and  without  the  annoyances  which  we  were  anticipating, 
according  to  the  stories  of  travelers.  Our  passports 
were  first  asked  for  and  were  very  politely  returned  to 
us  after  a  few  moments  waiting  in  a  hall  decorated 
with  maps  and  views  of  Venice,  the  window  of  which 
opened  on  a  com't  filled  with  half-plucked  chickens  of  a 
pitiable  and  ferocious  expression,  which  was  most  laugh- 
able. These  miserable  fowls,  prepared  for  the  spit, 
strolled  gravely  about  with  two  feathers  in  the  rear. 
In  spite  of  this  civility  in  regard  to  formalities  on  the 
part  of  the  officials,  we  are  obliged  to  state  that  our 
description  had  already  arrived  from  Paris  and  had 
been  copied  in  all  the  registers ;  yet  we  had  traveled 
rapidly,  having  stopped  only  a  single  day  at  Geneva. 

We  cannot  leave  Sesto-Calende  without  giving  a  por- 
trait of  a  young  girl  who  was  standing  at  the  door  of  a 
shop.  The  obscure  interior  made  a  warm  and  vigorous 
background  from  which  she  stood  out  like  one  of  Gior- 
gione's  heads.  Through  her,  we  salute  Southern  beauty 
in  its  present  type.  Her  black  eyes  shone  like  coals 
under  her  forehead,  in  the  midst  of  a  dull  pallor.  She 
had  that  tint  of  a  single  tone,  that  faccia  smorta  which 
has  nothing  of  the  sickly  about  it,  and  which  shows 
that  passion  has  concentrated  all  the  blood  about  the 
heart.  Her  thick,  dark,  glossy  hair,  crinkled  in  little 
waves,  stirred  upon  her  temples  as  if  ruffled  by  the  wind, 
and  her  neck  was  attached  to  her  shoulders  by  a  powerful 
and  simple  line.  She  tranquilly  allowed  us  to  regard 
her  without  savagery  or  coquetry,  imagining  us  either 
a  painter  or  poet,  perhaps  both,  making  for  us  the 
allowance  due  to  either  one  of  those  professions. 

[     54     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

The  Austrian  postilion  has  a  costume  which  is  quite 
picturesque,  —  the  green  coat  with  the  yellow  and  black 
aiglet,  the  heavy  boots,  the  hat  circled  with  leather, 
and,  at  his  side,  that  hunting  horn  with  which  the 
melodies  of  Schubert  are  so  much  concerned.  It  is 
worthy  of  notice  that  the  postihon,  who  in  all  countries 
drives  civilization  en  poste,  since  civilization  and  circu- 
lation are,  so  to  speak,  synonymous,  is  one  of  the  last 
to  remain  faithful  to  the  local  color.  He  drives  the 
English  in  mackintosh  and  waterproof,  and  preserves 
his  motley  and  characteristic  Hvery.  It  is  the  past 
leading  the  future  when  he  cracks  his  whip. 

From  Sesto-Caleude  to  Milan  the  road  is  bordered  by 
vineyards  and  plantations  of  trees  of  the  most  luxuriant 
and  vigorous  vegetation.  The  branches  prevent  an  ex- 
tended view,  and  one  advances  between  two  walls  of 
verdure  bathed  by  streams  of  running  water. 

At  Soma  there  is  a  church  with  a  very  beautiful 
facade,  and  in  this  church  are  some  frescoes  of  a  very 
soft  and  pleasant  tone,  although  of  that  style  which 
marks  the  decadence  of  art.  As  for  ourselves,  accus- 
tomed as  we  are  to  the  rancidity  of  oil  painting,  this 
species  of  flowery  fresco  has  a  charm  which  is  alto- 
gether new.  One  frequently  meets  Austrian  soldiers 
coming  and  going  on  this  road,  either  in  little  groups 
or  isolated,  or  in  artillery  wagons.  They  have  a  mild, 
sad  air,  and  seem  afflicted  with  home-sickness.  In  spite 
of  their  reserved  bearing,  they  produce,  even  upon  a 
stranger,  a  disagreeable  effect ;  it  is  sad  to  see  the  beak 
of  the  Austrian  eagle  in  the  side  of  this  beautiful  coun- 
try, and  yet  the  conquerors  do  not  affect  a  triumphant 
or  haughty  carriage ;  one  might  even  say  that  they  seek 
to  dissimulate  and  make  themselves  as  inconspicuous  as 
possible ;  but  the  German  phlegm  is  incompatible  with 
the  Italian  vivacity ;  it  is  a  question  of  racial  antipathy 
as  well  as  of  patriotism. 

[     55     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Gallarate  and  Rho  take  you  to  Milan  in  two  relays. 
A  magnificent  alley  of  trees  announces  that  we  are 
approaching  the  city,  which  presents  itself  very  majesti- 
cally from  this  side.  A  triumphal  arch,  much  grander 
than  that  of  the  Carrousel,  and  which  might  vie  in  mag- 
nificence with  that  of  V Etoile,  gives  to  this  entrance  a 
monumental  character  which  the  rest  does  not  dispar- 
age. On  the  top  of  the  arch  an  allegorical  figure, 
Peace  or  Victory,  drives  a  car  of  bronze  drawn  by  six 
horses.  At  each  corner  of  the  structure  knights  holding 
crowns  make  their  brazen  horses  paw  the  ground ;  two 
colossal  figures  of  river-gods  leaning  on  their  urns,  bend 
over  the  gigantic  ship  which  contains  the  votive  in- 
scription, and  four  groups  of  two  Corinthian  columns 
mark  the  divisions  of  the  monument,  support  the  cor- 
nice and  separate  the  arcades,  which  are  three  in  num- 
ber ;  that  in  the  middle  is  of  a  prodigious  height.  This 
gate  passed,  we  cross  the  Place  d' Amies,  which  ap- 
peared to  us  to  be  almost  as  large  as  the  Champ  de 
Mars.  On  the  left  looms  up  an  immense  amphitheatre, 
designed  for  manoeuvres  or  performances  in  the  open 
air ;  in  the  background  rises  the  old  castle,  and  further 
off  the  white  silhouette  of  the  dome  cuts  the  blue  sky 
like  silver  filigree  work,  and  has  nothing  whatever  of 
the  contour  of  a  cupola ;  but  dome,  in  Italy,  is  a  generic 
term,  and  does  not  imply  the  idea  of  cupola. 

From  what  one  encounters  in  the  streets,  from  the 
height  of  the  buildings,  the  movement  of  the  people, 
the  cleanliness,  the  general  air  of  comfortableness,  from 
the  numerous  carriages  running  along  the  flagged  strips, 
—  a  sort  of  stone  railway  inserted  in  the  pavement  con- 
structed of  pebbles,  —  one  feels  that  one  is  in  a  living 
capital,  a  rare  thing  in  Italy,  where  there  are  so  many 
dead  cities.  The  houses  have  the  air  of  hotels,  the 
hotels  the  appearance  of  palaces,  and  the  palaces,  of  tem- 
ples; all  is  large,  regular,  majestic,  a  little  emphatic  even; 

[     56     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

one  sees  only  columns,  architraves  and  balconies  of 
granite. 

It  is  something  between  Madrid  and  Versailles,  with 
a  cleanness  which  Madrid  has  not ;  this  Spanish  resem- 
blance of  which  we  have  already  spoken  strikes  us  at 
every  step  and  we  cannot  refrain  from  returning  to  it, 
since  no  one,  so  far  as  we  know,  has  ever  before  re- 
marked it.  From  the  window  of  the  large  stores  hang 
white  and  yellow  stripes  ;  the  shops  have  curtains  of  the 
same  color,  which  made  us  think  of  Tendidos. 

The  women  of  the  middle  class,  or  those  not  in  full 
toilette,  wear  the  mezzaro,  a  kind  of  black  veil  which 
might  be  mistaken  for  the  mantilla ;  the  illusion  would 
be  almost  complete,  if  the  Austrians  did  not  come  to 
destroy  it. 

We  were  told  to  descend,  at  the  Corsia  di  Servi,  at 
the  Hotel  de  la  Villc,  the  best  in  Milan,  and  which  merits 
its  reputation.  This  inn  is  a  palace  which  could  accom- 
modate more  than  one  prince  with  his  retinue.  We  have 
seen,  in  the  course  of  our  travels,  crowned  heads  who 
were  assuredly  less  handsomely  lodged.  Its  fa9ade  is  a 
bit  of  very  commendable  architecture,  adorned  with  pil- 
asters, brackets,  busts  of  the  great  men  of  Italy,  paint- 
ers, poets,  historians,  warriors ;  the  staircase,  worthy  of 
a  royal  residence,  is  covered  from  top  to  bottom  with 
marbles,  stuccoes,  and  paintings  of  unheard-of  richness 
and  astonishing  execution ;  the  ceiling,  also,  is  remark- 
able ;  it  represents  different  mythological  subjects,  with 
cameos,  bas-reliefs,  balustrades,  and  flowers  of  a  brilliancy 
of  tone  that  would  be  the  envy  of  Diaz.  All  the  rooms 
are  decorated  with  the  same  care  and  the  same  taste  ; 
here  are  some  gauntlets,  two  or  three  masks  and  some 
emblems  in  the  style  of  Pompeii ;  here,  some  rock-work 
ornaments,  very  exquisite,  or  some  cameos  or  enamel 
of  Limoges,  imitated  so  as  to  deceive  the  eye,  or  tapes- 
tries which  shimmer  like  silk  and  as  soft  as  velvet,  cof- 

[     57     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

fers,  rose-work,  arabesques  inexpressibly  fanciful  and 
very  strangely  embossed. 

The  smallest  corridors  have  their  magnificences  and 
their  interest.  As  to  the  dining-room  it  is  of  a  superla- 
tive elegance.  Eight  colossal  caryatides  of  alternate 
sex  watch  you  while  you  are  taking  your  repast  and 
intimidate  you  with  their  eyes  fixed  in  a  glassy  stare. 
They  support  a  ceiling  divided  into  compartments  of  an 
extravagant  richness.  Then  there  are  festoons,  hang- 
ings, imitations  of  precious  stones  and  gilding  more 
brilliant  than  the  genuine.  These  paintings,  of  which 
one  has  no  idea  in  France,  were  done  by  a  certain  decora- 
tor named  Alphonso,  who  died  two  or  three  years  ago. 
This  is  all  we  have  been  able  to  ascertain  concerning 
him.  We  have  described  this  hotel  in  detail.  It  will 
serve  to  furnish  an  idea  of  the  elegance  of  Milan.  We 
remained  there  two  days,  admirably  lodged,  fed,  and 
served  for  a  very  reasonable  charge. 

It  is  so  much  the  custom  for  travelers  to  tell  lies 
about  their  hosts  and  the  hostelries  at  which  they  stop 
that  we  have  here  endeavored  to  render  this  superb 
establishment  the  justice  which  it  merits.  We  shall 
have  quite  enough  descriptions  of  an  altogether  different 
chai'acter  to  make  a  contrast. 


[      58     ] 


CHAPTER  V 

MILAN— THE  DOME— THE  OPEN-AIR 
THEATRE 


THE  Dome  is  naturally  the  first  thought  of  every 
traveler  who  arrives  in  Milan.  It  dominates  the 
city ;  it  is  the  centre  of  it,  its  attraction  and  its 
wonder.  Thither  one  runs  at  once,  even  upon  a  night 
when  there  is  no  moon,  in  order  at  least  to  catch  some 
profile  of  it. 

The  Piazza  Del  Duomo,  quite  irregular  in  its  form,  is 
bordered  by  houses  of  which  it  is  the  custom  to  speak 
ill. 

There  is  no  travelers'  guide  which  does  not  demand 
that  they  be  razed  to  the  ground  in  order  to  make  a 
grand  symmetrical  Place  in  the  Rivoli  style.  We  are 
not  of  that  opinion.  These  houses,  with  their  massive 
pillars,  their  saffron-colored  awnings,  without  order  and 
of  unequal  height,  form  a  very  good  set-off  for  the  cathe- 
dral. Buildings  often  lose  more  than  they  gain  by  being 
unobstructed. 

One  can  be  convinced  of  this  fact  by  referring  to 
several  Gothic  monuments  to  which  covered  stalls  and 
huts  were  glued,  and  which  were  believed  to  be  innocu- 
ous. This  is  not,  however,  the  case  with  the  Dome, 
which  is  entirely  isolated  ;  but  we  think  that  nothing  is 
more  advantageous  for  a  palace,  a  church,  and  all  sym- 
metrical edifices  than  that  they  should  be  surrounded 
by  incoherent  constructions  which  serve  to  set  off  their 
noble  regularity. 

When  one  looks  at  the  Dome  from  the  Place,  the 
first  effect  is  dazzling ;  the  whiteness  of  the  marble,  not 

[     59     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

harmonizing  with  the  bhie  of  the  sky,  strikes  you  all  at 
once ;  it  might  be  considered  as  an  immense  guipure  of 
silver  standing  upon  a  ground  of  lapis  lazuli.  That 
is  the  first  impression  conveyed  by  it,  and  it  is  also  the 
last  memory  which  the  mind  retains  of  it.  When  we 
think  of  the  Dome  of  Milan  in  days  to  come,  that  is  how 
it  will  appear  to  us.  The  Dome  is  one  of  the  few  Gothic 
churches  of  Italy,  but  this  Gothic  little  resembles  ours. 
There  is  not  that  idea  of  sombre  faith,  of  disquieting 
mystery,  of  shadowy  depth,  of  emaciated  features,  of 
leaping  from  the  earth  toward  the  sky,  that  character  of 
austerity  which  repudiates  beauty  as  being  too  sensuous 
and  which  only  takes  from  matter  what  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  an  advance  toward  God ;  it  is  a  Gothic 
full  of  elegance,  of  grace  and  of  splendor,  which  might 
be  dreamed  of  in  connection  with  fairy  palaces  and  in 
accordance  with  which  alcazars  and  mosques  could  be 
built  as  well  as  a  Catholic  temple. 

The  delicacy  which  is  still  apparent,  in  spite  of  the 
hugeness  and  whiteness,  gives  it  the  air  of  a  glacier  with 
its  thousand  needles,  or  of  a  gigantic  aggregation  of 
stalactites.  One  can  with  difficulty  believe  it  to  be  a 
work  performed  by  the  hand  of  man. 

The  design  of  the  facade  is  very  simple ;  its  angles  are 
as  acute  as  the  gables  of  an  ordinary  house,  and  are 
bordered  by  a  lacework  of  marble,  carrying  on  a  wall, 
without  forepart,  without  architectural  order,  pierced  by 
five  doors  and  eight  windows  and  striped  by  six  groups 
of  spindle-shaped  columns,  or  rather  ribs,  terminating  in 
hollowed  points  which  are  surmounted  by  statues,  and 
the  interstices  of  which  are  filled  with  corbels  and 
niches  sheltering  figures  of  angels,  saints  and  patriarchs. 
From  behind  burst  forth  in  innumerable  rockets,  like  the 
shafts  of  a  basaltic  grotto,  forests  of  bell  turrets,  of  pin- 
nacles, of  minarets,  of  white  marble,  and  the  central 
spire,   which  seems    an   icicle    crystallized   in  the  air, 

[     CO     ] 


»■  r-rm|;;j 


MILAN 

The  Cathedral  Front.     (By  Marco  Frisone  da  Cariipione  /) 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

launches  itself  into  the  azure  to  a  frightful  height,  and 
carries  a  Virgin  who  stands  erect  on  its  top,  her  foot  on 
a  crescent  to  within  two  steps  of  Heaven.  On  the  mid- 
dle of  this  fa9ade  are  written  these  words :  "  Mccriae 
nascenti,"  which  constitute  the  dedication  of  the  Cathe- 
dral. 

Begun  by  Jean  Galeas  Visconti,  continued  by  Ludovic 
le  More,  the  basilica  of  Milan  was  finished  by  Napoleon. 
It  is  the  largest  church  in  the  world  except  St.  Peter's 
in  Rome.  Its  interior  is  of  a  majestic  and  noble  sim- 
plicity. Rows  of  joined  columns  form  five  naves.  These 
groups  of  columns,  in  spite  of  their  actual  massiveness, 
have  a  certain  airiness  on  account  of  the  slenderness  of 
their  shafts.  Above  the  tops  of  their  pillars  they  sup- 
port a  sort  of  windowed  gallery  where  statues  of  saints 
are  lodged,  since  the  ribs  are  continued  and  meet  again 
at  the  summit  of  the  arch,  adorned  with  trefoil  and  Gothic 
wreaths,  painted  with  so  great  perfection  as  to  deceive 
all  eyes,  if  the  rough  coating  which  has  fallen  did  not 
permit  the  naked  stone  to  be  seen. 

At  the  centre  of  the  cross,  an  opening  surrounded  by 
a  balustrade  allows  one  to  plunge  into  the  cryptic  chapel, 
where  Saint  Charles  Borromeo  reposes  in  a  coffin  of  crys- 
tal covered  with  silver  plate.  Saint  Charles  Borromeo 
is  the  saint  who  is  most  revered  in  this  country.  His 
virtues,  his  conduct  during  the  plague  at  Milan,  have 
made  him  popular,  and  his  memory  is  perpetuated. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  choir,  on  a  bay  which  supports 
a  crucifix,  surrounded  by  adoring  angels,  may  be  read 
on  a  framework  of  wood  the  following  inscription  :  ^^At- 
tendite  ad  petraTn  unde  excisi  estisy  On  each  side  two 
magnificent  pulpits  wrought  of  similar  metal  rise,  sup- 
ported by  superb  figures  of  bronze  and  covered  with  plaques 
containing  bas-rehefs  of  silver,  the  material  of  which  is 
the  least  factor  in  its  value.  The  organs,  placed  not  far 
from  the  pulpits,  have  for  doors  large  pictures  by  Proca- 

[     61     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

cini,  if  our  niemorj  is  not  in  default ;  around  the  choir 
runs  a  Chemin  dc  la  Croix.,  sculptured  by  Andre  Biffi  and 
some  other  Milanese  sculptors  like  him.  The  weep- 
ing angels,  who  mark  the  stations,  have  a  great  variety 
of  attitudes,  and  are  charming,  although  of  a  grace  which 
is  slightly  effeminate. 

The  general  impression  is  simple  and  religious  ;  a  soft 
light  invites  to  meditation ;  the  great  pillars  mount  up 
to  the  vault  with  a  shoot  full  of  courage  and  of  faith. 
Each  apparent  detail  does  not  succeed  in  destroying  the 
majesty  of  the  whole.  There  is  no  overloading,  no 
superfluity  of  luxury ;  the  lines  can  he  followed  from 
one  end  to  the  other,  and  the  design  of  the  building 
understood  at  a  glance. 

From  the  outside  this  superb  elegance  seems  to  veil 
itself  in  mystery  and  humble  itself ;  the  swelhng  hymn 
of  marble  lowers  the  voice  a  little  and  moderates  its 
burst  of  sound ;  the  exterior,  by  force  of  its  slenderness 
and  whiteness,  is  perhaps  Pagan,  but  the  interior  is 
certainly  Christian. 

The  sacristy  contains  a  treasure  which  ought  not  to  sur- 
prise us  who  have  seen  the  wardrobe  of  Notre-Dame  of 
Toledo,  in  which  a  single  robe,  covered  with  white  and 
black  pearls,  is  worth  seven  million  francs,  and  yet  that  of 
Milan  is  fully  as  valuable.  We  will  notice  first,  because 
art  always  takes  precedence  of  gold  and  silver,  a  beauti- 
ful Christ  a  la  colonm^  by  Christoforo  Gobi,  a  Milanese, 
and  a  painting  of  Daniel  Crespi,  representing  a  miracle 
of  Saint  Charles  Borromeo,  a  work  of  great  force  and  a 
grand  power  of  expression ;  next,  we  will  mention  the 
silver  busts  of  the  bishops,  of  Saint  Sebastian  and  of  Saint 
Thekla,  the  patroness  of  the  parish,  all  strewn  with  flam- 
ing rubies  and  topazes  ;  a  cross  of  gold,  starred  with  sap- 
phires, garnets,  gleaming  topazes,  and  rock-crystals ;  a 
magnificent  gospel  dating  from  1068,  given  by  the  Arch- 
bishop Ribertus,  all  of  gold,  and  bearing  on  its  cover, 

[      62      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

chiseled  in  Byzantine  style,  a  Christ  in  a  skirt  accompa- 
nied by  four  symbolical  figures,  —  the  lion,  the  ox,  the 
eagle  and  the  angel ;  a  vessel  for  holy  water  of  ivory, 
worked  in  most  delicate  fashion,  and  furnished  with 
handles  of  vermilion,  representing  chimeras  ;  a  ciborium 
of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  paintings  on  silk  by  Ludovico 
Pellegrini, 

In  a  corner  of  the  nave,  before  mounting  to  the 
Dome,  we  glance  at  a  historic  tomb  with  allegorical 
figures  cast  in  bronze  by  the  cavalier  Aretin,  from 
designs  by  Michael  Angelo,  of  a  powerful  and  superb 
style.  We  reach  the  roof  of  the  church  by  ascending  a 
staircase  furnished  at  all  its  turns  with  preventive  or 
threatening  inscriptions,  which  do  not  speak  well  for 
the  piety  or  cleanliness  of  the  Italians. 

This  roof,  all  bristling  with  towers  and  arched  but- 
tresses which  form  corridors  in  perspective,  is  made  of 
large  blocks  of  marble  like  the  rest  of  the  edifice.  The 
roof  itself  rises  well  above  most  of  the  structures  of  the 
city.  A  bas-relief  of  the  finest  execution  is  enclosed  in 
each  arched  buttress ;  each  tower  contains  twenty-five 
statues.  We  do  not  believe  that  any  spot  in  the  world 
contains  so  large  a  number  of  sculptured  figures.  A 
city  with  a  large  population  of  marble  could  be  made 
out  of  the  statues  of  the  Dome,  —  6,760  can  be  counted. 
We  have  heard  of  a  church  in  Morea,  painted  in  the 
Byzantine  fashion,  by  the  monks  of  Mt.  Athos,  and 
which  contains  not  less  than  three  thousand  figures, 
large  and  small ;  but  that  is  a  small  thing  alongside  the 
Milan  Cathedral. 

Apropos  of  the  personages  painted  or  sculptured,  we 
often  had  the  idea,  though  never  invested  with  the 
power,  of  bringing  to  life  all  these  figures  created  by  art 
in  granite,  in  stone,  on  wood  and  cloth,  and  with  them 
filling  a  country  whose  location  should  be  the  back- 
ground of  certain  pictures  made  real.  The  sculptured 
[     63     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

multitudes  of  the  Dome  bring  back  tliis  fancy  to  our 
brain.  Among  these  statues  there  is  one  by  Canova,  a 
Saint  Sebastian  lodged  in  a  turret  and  an  Eve  by  Chris- 
toforo  Gobi,  of  a  charming  and  sensuous  grace,  which  one 
is  surprised  to  find  in  such  a  place.  However,  she  is 
very  beautiful,  and  the  birds  of  the  air  seem  in  no  wise 
scandalized  by  her  Paradisiac  vestiture. 

From  this  platform  an  immense  panorama  is  un- 
folded. At  the  same  time  can  be  seen  the  Alps  and  the 
Apennines,  the  vast  plains  of  Lombardy,  and  with  a  field 
glass  one  can  regulate  his  watch  by  the  dial  of  the 
Church  of  Monza,  the  black  and  white  strata  of  which 
can  be  readily  distinguished. 

It  is  at  Monza  that  the  famous  iron  crown  of  Napo- 
leon is  preserved,  which  he  placed  on  his  head  when 
being  crowned  King  of  Italy,  saying  "  God  gives  it  to 
me,  beware  who  touches  it."  This  crown  is  of  gold  and 
precious  stones,  like  all  crowns,  and  owes  its  name  to  a 
small  ring  of  iron  which  fastens  it,  and  which  is  alleged 
to  have  been  made  from  a  nail  of  the  true  cross,  which 
makes  it  a  treasure  and  a  relic.  Special  permission 
must  be  obtained  in  order  to  view  it,  since  it  has  ac- 
quired a  new  value  in  touching  that  august  forehead ; 
but  a  perfectly  correct  copy  of  it  is  shown.  The  guide 
told  us  all  this  at  the  foot  of  a  tower,  and  in  French, 
which  made  us  prefer  his  Italian.  He  calls  us  continu- 
ally "  INIonsieur,  the  chevalier,"  on  account  of  a  small 
red  ribbon  in  our  buttonhole,  hoping  doubtless  to  ex- 
tract a  larger  "  tip  "  by  means  of  this  flattering  title.  It 
was  the  first  time  we  had  been  the  recipient  of  this  dis- 
tinction, and  that  at  four  hundred  steps  above  the 
pavement!     What  an  honor! 

The  ascent  of  the  hollowed  and  perforated  spire  by 
day  has  nothing  of  the  perilous  about  it,  however  it 
may  alarm  people  subject  to  vertigo.  Frail  staircases 
wind  upward  in  the  towers,  and  conduct  you  to  a  bal- 

[      64      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

cony  above  which  there  is  only  the  apex  of  the  spire 
and  the  statue  which  crowns  the  edifice. 

We  will  not  endeavor  to  describe  more  in  detail  this 
gigantic  basilica.  It  would  need  a  volume  for  its  mono- 
graph. A  simple  artist,  we  content  ourselves  with  a 
general  survey  and  a  personal  impression.  When  one 
redescends  to  the  street,  and  makes  the  tour  of  the 
church,  one  finds  on  the  side  facades  and  the  apses  the 
same  crowd  of  statues,  the  same  aggregation  of  bas- 
reliefs  ;  it  is  a  debauch  of  sculptures  and  an  incredible 
aggregation  of  marvels.  In  the  vicinity  of  the  cathe- 
dral all  kinds  of  small  industries  prosper,  —  the  small 
shopkeepers,  opticians,  and  even  a  theatre  of  marion- 
ettes, whose  performances  we  promise  ourselves  not 
to  miss.  Human  life  with  its  trivialities  swarms 
and  bustles  at  the  base  of  the  majestic  building ; 
everywhere  visible  the  same  contrast  between  the  sub- 
limity of  the  ideal  and  the  grossness  of  the  real.  The 
temple  of  the  Saviour  furnishes  shade  for  the  booth  of 
Pohchinello. 

Our  method  in  traveling  is  to  wander  at  hazard 
about  the  streets,  reckoning  on  the  happiness  of  chance 
meetings.  In  the  R^ie.  des  Omenoni,  our  lucky  star  per- 
mitted us  to  encounter  a  faQade  which  had  charmed  our 
friend  August  Preault ;  the  entablature  crushes  with  its 
weight  six  enormous  caryatides  in  the  style  of  Michael 
Angelo  and  Puget,  and  which  are  rendered  still  more 
flamboyant  by  the  exaggerations  of  decadence.  Picture 
to  yourself  the  most  swelling  muscles,  the  most  Hercu- 
lean interlacing  of  nerves,  the  most  knotted  torsos,  the 
most  athletic  chests  possible  to  your  imagination,  and 
still  you  will  not  attain  to  the  reality.  As  to  the  heads, 
they  are  uncouth,  bristling,  savage,  rolling  sinister  eyes 
under  eyebrows  hke  brushwood,  and  seeming  to  utter 
words  of  revolt  under  their  dishevelled  beards.  Each 
of  these  figures  bears  the  name  of  a  vanquished  barbar- 
[     65    ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

ous  people.  We  suggest  to  romantic  sculptors  passing 
through  Milan  a  visit  to  No.  1722  Bue  dcgli  Omenoiii. 

In  Milan  almost  all  the  shops  bear  on  their  signs  this 

notice  "  Ancient  house  of ,"  "  Ancient  hostelry 

of ,"  "Ancient  cafe  of ."     At  home  we 

put  it  "  New  store,"  "  new  caf^."  The  wine  shops 
instead  of  being  daubed  with  red,  as  in  France,  are 
indicated  by  crowns  of  vine  branches  and  grapes  with 
a  pretty  effect.  The  vendors  of  watermelons  arrange 
their  stands  also  very  agreeably.  The  cut  melons  allow 
their  rose-colored  pulps  to  be  seen,  on  which  a  stream 
of  water  fine  as  a  hair  is  played,  or  else  the  fruit,  ex- 
tracted from  its  skin,  is  cut  in  the  form  of  columns  sur- 
mounted by  a  small  piece  of  ice  for  a  capital.  There 
is  nothing  more  attractive  to  the  eye  than  this  mixture 
of  green  rind  and  vermilion  slices.  The  watermelon  is 
not  at  all  like  our  melons.  The  interior  is  filled  with  a 
sort  of  snowy  pith  of  a  rosy  tint,  from  which  flows 
a  fresh  and  sugary  water.  Although  quite  agreeable  in 
warm  weather,  the  watermelon  is  devoured  by  the  eyes 
as  well  as  by  the  mouth ;  it  attracts  the  taste  by  means 
of  the  sigrht.  A  slice  sells  for  a  few  centimes  and  is  the 
delight  of  the  little  people. 

Strolling  about,  we  read  the  notices  of  the  booksellers 
and  noticed  the  titles  of  the  works  exposed  for  sale. 
We  were  very  much  surprised  to  encounter  the  political 
works  of  Lamartine,  of  Louis  Blanc,  the  Memoires  de 
Caussidiere,  the  fifty-two  small  volumes  of  M.  Emile  do 
Girardin,  and  a  host  of  treatises  upon  matters  which 
we  should  have  supposed  would  be  forbidden  here.  We 
will  also  mention  that  works  on  political  economy, 
statistics,  and  other  analogous  subjects  outnumber  those 
of  general  literature  and  poetry. 

Even  Alexander  Dumas  is  to  be  found,  and  what  is 
more  strange,  the  socialist  romances  of  Eugene  Sue,  the 
"  Mysteries  of  Paris,"  and  the  "  Wandering  Jew."     Not 

[      00      ] 


JOUKNEYS     IN      ITALY 

to  leave  any  doubt  as  to  the  tolerance  of  the  police  in 
this  respect,  a  large  handbill  at  all  the  corners  of  the 
streets  announced  at  the  open-air  theatre  in  the  public 
gardens  an  extraordinary  performance :  "  The  punish- 
ment and  death  of  Rodin  by  cholera,  an  episode  of  the 
'  Wandering  Jew.'  "  A  painting  containing  portraits  of 
savage  women  and  boa-constrictors  showed  the  wretched 
subject  in  the  throes  of  convulsions,  and  making  (as  an 
attraction)  frightful  grimaces.  We  could  not  miss  such 
a  spectacle.  Moreover,  La  Scala  was  closed,  and  the 
minor  theatres  were  not  playing  that  day. 


[      67     ] 


tttftttttttttttttttttttttttttttt 

CHAPTER    VI 

THE    "LAST    SUPPER"— BRESCIA- 
VERONA 


THE  open-air  theatre,  which  also  serves  for  a  circus, 
since  horses  and  hippie  attributes  play  a  large 
part  in  its  ornamentation,  has  no  ceiling ;  the 
blue  sky  takes  the  place  of  one.  It  is  composed  of  a 
parterre  which  merits  its  name  literally,  and  of  galleries 
divided  into  boxes,  but  without  partitions  and  open  at 
the  back. 

It  was  about  half-past  five  and  the  play  began  sub 
Jove  crudo  ;  but  soon  the  shadows  fall,  then  the  night 
comes.  First  a  candle  is  discreetly  lighted  to  lighten 
the  actor  in  his  play ;  meanwhile,  the  balance  of  the 
theatre  was  plunged  in  darkness,  like  the  danseuses  of 
Algeria,  who,  making  little  account  of  the  illumination 
of  the  hall  in  which  they  display  their  graces,  keep  a 
negro  holding  a  candle  near  them,  who  appropriately 
elevates  or  lowers  it,  illuminating  eyes,  bust  or  feet  fol- 
lowing the  progress  of  the  dance.  Finally,  a  timid 
light  joined  itself  to  the  first ;  then  a  row  of  footlights 
started  up.  Some  argand  lamps  were  lit,  and  the  day 
theatre  was  transformed  into  a  nocturnal  one,  badly 
lighted.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  hall  had  only 
the  stars  for  chandeliers. 

The  actors  were  not  very  bad.  Unfortunately,  Mile. 
de  Cardoville  was  withered,  lean  and  dark-skinned,  and 
made  us  long  for  the  blonde  and  vivacious  Alphonsine 
of  the  Delassemcnts-Comiques.  The  two  young  girls, 
although  they  were  more  pleasing,  did  not  justify  the 
supervision  of  Dagobert,  but  Prince  Djalma  was  thor- 

[      68      ] 


A''.->    ■'■■{'- 


LEONARD  A   DA    VINCI 

The  Last  Sn.j)i)er  {copy) 


JOURNEYS     IN      ITALY 

oughly  accomplished ;  we  do  not  believe  it  would  be 
possible  to  realize  a  character  more  exactly.  Never  was 
a  head  of  more  thoroughly  Indian  type,  nor  an  eye  so 
filled  with  flames  seen  to  roll  under  a  blue  eyebrow  and  a 
white  turban ;  the  arched  and  slender  nose,  the  even 
jaws,  the  red  mouth,  the  gold-colored  complexion  might 
have  represented  Rama  departing  for  his  conquest  of 
the  island  of  Ceylon.  He  walked  rapidly  upon  the 
stage  in  his  white  vestment  relieved  by  red  trimmings 
which  seemed  like  streams  of  blood,  with  the  motions 
of  a  young  tiger,  now  languishing,  now  fierce.  Rodin, 
who  is  the  scapegoat  of  the  piece,  has,  except  for  a  hat 
with  an  immense  rim,  the  perfect  physiognomy  of  Basil 
of  Beaumarchais,  with  a  slight  bint  of  Tartufe  in 
addition ;  his  coat  is  black,  his  breeches  short,  his  shoes 
and  stockings  denote  the  priest  perfectl}^ ;  the  actor,  to 
please  the  public,  was  given  all  the  ugliness  that  can  be 
obtained  by  the  use  of  charcoal,  ochre  and  bitumen ; 
he  was  truly  hideous,  with  his  low  forehead,  sunken 
eyes,  livid  jaws  and  bluish  beard  extending  as  far  as 
the  cheek  bones ;  the  blue  cholera,  on  its  quitting  the 
plague-stricken  peninsula  of  the  Ganges,  could  not  have 
a  more  cadaverous  and  frightful  countenance.  At  each 
contortion,  as  suffering  racked  him,  when  tormented  by 
the  terrible  malady,  there  was  applause  and  frenzied 
stamping  of  feet. 

The  foyer,  where  one  may  smoke,  is  in  the  open  air ; 
the  actors,  who  have  no  dressing-room,  dress  themselves 
pell-mell  behind  the  scenes,  in  a  sort  of  wooden  hut,  very 
much  as  is  done  at  the  Hippodrome  in  Paris. 

Having  returned  to  the  hotel,  as  we  were  looking  at 
an  engraving  of  the  Cene  by  I-,eonardo  da  Vinci,  the 
original  of  which  we  believed  to  be  no  longer  in  exist- 
ence, we  were  told  that  it  was  still  extant  and  could  be 
seen  in  a  convent  transformed  into  an  Austrian  bar- 
racks, near  Saint  Marie  des  Graces. 

[     69     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

The  next  day  our  first  visit  was  to  this  church,  a 
charming  edifice,  all  of  brick,  which  the  rough-coating, 
fallen  away  in  many  places,  permitted  to  be  seen  and 
looking  like  vermilion  flesh.  It  is  that  which  gives  to 
the  structure,  although  dilapidated,  a  rose  and  white 
aspect,  a  vivacious  and  youthful  air;  the  side  chapels 
are  adorned  with  frescoes  representing  tortures ;  on  the 
door  of  one  of  these  chapels  are  inserted  two  bronze  me- 
dallions of  the  Virgin  and  of  Christ,  of  an  impressive 
expression  and  very  delicate  workmanship ;  the  low 
vaults,  the  incrustations  of  marble,  the  mirrors  and 
crystals  with  which  they  are  decorated  are  entirely  in 
the  Spanish  style,  and  we  saw  one  very  similar  to  these 
in  the  convent  of  San  Domingo  at  Grenada. 

In  leaving  the  church  by  the  sacristy,  the  ceiling  of 
which  is  blue  and  strewn  with  golden  stars,  we  passed 
out  into  the  cloister  of  the  ancient  convent.  War  in- 
habits the  old  asylum  of  peace ;  soldiers,  those  violent 
monks,  have  replaced  the  monks,  those  peaceable  sol- 
diers ;  the  barracks  always  fit  easily  into  the  monastery  ; 
the  regiments  and  the  communities,  those  solitary  multi- 
tudes, resemble  each  other  in  one  respect — the  absence 
of  family.  The  pavement  of  the  long  arcades,  disturbed 
in  former  times  by  the  monotonous  patter  of  sandals, 
resound  to-day  under  the  butts  of  muskets  ;  the  drum 
beats  where  the  bell  tolled  ;  the  oath  bursts  forth  where 
the  prayer  was  murmured ;  military  life,  with  its  bi'utal- 
ity,  spreads  through  the  courts  ;  here  is  a  shirt  hung  out 
to  dry ;  there  a  pair  of  pantaloons  frisking  in  the  wind ; 
everywhere,  open  chests,  racks  of  arms ;  platters  and 
food,  the  disciplined  disorder  of  the  camp.  Along  the 
walls,  scarred  by  the  weather,  the  carelessness  or  impi- 
ous grossness  of  the  soldiery,  some  paintings  can  be 
discerned  representing  the  miracles  of  the  founder  of 
the  order,  always  engaged  in  baffling  the  temptations 
of  the  devil,  who  appeared  to  him  sometimes  under  the 

[      70     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN      ITALY 

form  of  a  cat,  sometimes  disguised  as  a  monkey,  or, 
more  subtly,  under  the  aspect  of  a  beautiful  woman. 
The  Last  Supper  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  occupies  the 
wall  at  the  end  of  the  refectorj-.  The  other  wall  is 
covered  by  a  Calvary  by  Montorfanos,  dated  1495. 
There  is  some  talent  in  this  painting.  But  who  can 
hold  his  own  in  the  face  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  ? 

Certainly  the  state  of  degradation  into  which  this 
masterpiece  of  human  genius  has  fallen  is  regrettable ; 
but  it  is  less  injured  than  one  could  believe  possible. 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  is,  ipar  excellence,  the  painter  of  the 
mysterious,  the  ineffable,  the  crepuscular.  His  painting 
has  the  air  of  music  in  a  miiior  key.  His  shadows  are 
veils  that  he  half  removes,  or  that  he  thickens  in  order 
to  make  you  divine  a  secret  thought ;  his  tones  are 
deadened  like  the  colors  of  objects  in  the  moonlight, 
and  time,  which  is  hateful  to  other  painters,  aids  him 
by  strengthening  the  harmonious  shadows  in  which  he 
loves  to  plunge  himself. 

The  first  impression  made  by  that  marvelous  fresco 
is  in  the  nature  of  a  dream.  All  trace  of  art  has  disap- 
peared ;  it  seems  to  float  on  the  surface  of  the  wall, 
which  absorbs  it  as  a  light  vapor.  It  is  the  ghost  of  a 
painting,  the  spectre  of  a  masterpiece  returned  to  earth. 
The  effect  perhaps  is  more  solemn  and  more  rehgious 
even  than  if  the  picture  was  alive ;  the  body  has  disap- 
peared, but  the  soul  survives  in  its  entirety. 

Christ  occupies  the  middle  of  the  table,  having  on  His 
right  Saint  John,  the  beloved  apostle  ;  Saint  John  in  an 
attitude  of  adoration,  with  gentle  and  attentive  eye, 
mouth  half  open,  with  calm  visage,  bending  down  respect- 
fully but  affectionately,  suggests  the  heart  leaning  upon 
the  Divine  Master.  Leonardo  has  given  the  apostles 
rude,  strongly  accentuated  features :  since  the  apostles 
were  all  fishermen,  workers  with  their  hands  and  belong- 
ing to  the  people.     They  denote,  by  the  energy  of  their 

[     71     ]  ^ 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

features,  by  the  strength  of  their  muscles,  that  they  are 
the  growing  Church.  John,  with  his  feminine  figure,  his 
pure  features,  his  flesh-color  of  a  fine  and  delicate  tone, 
seems  to  have  about  him  much  more  of  the  angel  than 
the  man :  he  is  more  aerial  than  terrestrial ;  more  poetic 
than  dogmatic ;  more  loving  than  believing ;  he  sym- 
bolizes the  passage  of  the  human  nature  to  the  divine. 
Christ  bears  stamped  on  His  visage  the  ineffable  mildness 
of  the  voluntary  victim,  the  azure  of  Paradise  shines  in 
His  eyes,  and  words  of  peace  and  consolation  fall  from 
His  lips  like  the  celestial  manna  in  the  desert.  The 
tender  blue  of  His  eye-balls  and  the  pale  tint  of  His  skin, 
a  reflection  of  which  seems  to  have  colored  the  Charles  I 
of  Van  Dyck,  reveal  the  sufferings  of  the  interior  cross 
borne  with  a  satisfied  resignation.  He  resolutely  ac- 
cepts His  death  and  does  not  turn  away  from  the  sponge 
of  vinegar  in  that  last  rej)ast.  One  recognizes  a  moral 
hero  whose  soul  is  his  strength,  in  this  figure  of  an  in- 
comparable sweetness ;  the  carriage  of  the  head,  the  deli- 
cacy of  the  skin,  the  pure  pose  of  the  fingers,  all  denote 
an  aristocratic  nature  in  the  midst  of  the  plebeian  and 
rustic  faces  of  his  companions  —  Jesus  Christ  is  the  Son 
of  God,  but  He  is  also  of  the  race  of  the  kings  of  Judah. 
Was  not  such  a  revealer,  mild,  gentle,  and  one  whom 
little  children  could  approach  fearlessly,  necessary  to  a 
religion  which  is  wholly  spiritual? 

In  place  of  Jesus,  put  Socrates  in  that  last  scene  and 
its  character  will  change  immediately:  the  one  will  de- 
mand that  a  cock  be  sacrificed  to  Esculapius ;  the  other 
will  offer  himself  for  a  hostage,  and  the  beauty  of  Greek 
art  will  here  be  vanquished  by  Christian  art. 

We  had  expected  to  remain  longer  in  Milan,  to  visit 
the  sixteen  antique  columns  of  Saint  Lawrence,  the  great 
hospital,  the  palace  of  Belgiojoso,  several  rich  or  beauti- 
ful churches;  but  we  make  it  a  principle  to  seek  for 
nothing  more  after  experiencing  a  great  emotion,  and 

[     72     ] 


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i' 


VERONA 

The  Roman  Amphitheatre 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

nothing  could  surpass  the  Last  Supper  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci;  besides  Venice  drew  us  irresistibly  on. 

The  railway  took  us  as  far  as  Treviglio.  Continuing 
by  stage-coach  we  passed  Brescia  in  the  night,  stopping 
there  an  hour.  Of  Brescia  we  can  say  nothing  except 
that  the  houses  vaguely  outlined  in  the  shadows  seemed 
to  us  extremely  lofty  and  that  the  water  of  a  fountain, 
to  which  one  mounts  by  several  stejjs,  gave  us  great 
pleasure  by  its  coolness.  We  drank  several  draughts  of 
it  while  the  horses  were  being  changed. 

In  the  brightly-lighted  porch  of  the  inn  was  hung  an 
announcement  of  a  play.  Two  ballets  were  announced 
for  the  next  market  day,  "^/cme"  and  '■'■Giselle^''  by 
Mile.  Augusta  Maywood,  American  dancer,  who  made 
some  leaps  on  the  boards  of  the  Opera  several  years  ago. 
The  Brescians  rose  in  our  estimation  from  that  moment, 
and  the  superiority  of  the  pantomime,  intelligible  in  all 
languages,  was  still  further  demonstrated  to  us. 

From  Brescia  to  Verona  we  have  nothing  remarkable 
to  mention  except  a  view  of  the  Lake  of  Garda,  near 
Peschiera;  for,  like  the  Homeric  gods,  we  traveled  in  a 
cloud,  but  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

Verona,  the  name  of  which  cannot  be  spoken  without 
recalling  Romeo  and  Juliet, — two  real  beings, — pre- 
sents itself  to  the  eye  of  the  traveler  in  a  quite  pic- 
turesque fashion.  One  follows  for  some  time  the  Adige, 
which  is  crossed  by  a  large,  peculiar  bridge  of  brick, 
with  inordinate  arches,  parapets  fringed  with  Moorish 
battlements,  like  the  walls  of  Seville,  and  stairs  which 
prevent  carriages  from  passing  over  it.  A  beautiful  an- 
tique gate  made  of  two  rows  of  columns  with  arches 
above  them,  majestically  receives  the  travelers. 

The  Capulets  and  Montagues  could  still  fight  in  the 

streets    of  Verona,   and    Tybalt   might   slay   Mercutio 

there.    The  scenery  has  not  been  changed.    Shakespeare's 

tragedy  is  wonderfully  true  to  life.     At  Verona,  as  in  a 

[     73     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Spanish  city,  there  is  no  house  without  its  balcony,  and 
the  rope-ladder  need  only  to  be  selected.  Few  cities 
have  better  preserved  the  stamp  of  the  Middle  Ages :  the 
pointed  arcades,  trefoiled  windows,  the  carved  balconies, 
the  pillared  houses,  sculptured  street  corners,  the  great 
mansions  with  bronze  knockers,  with  wrought  bars,  in 
which  the  entablature  crowned  with  statues  is  blazoned 
with  architectural  details  which  the  pencil  alone  can  fur- 
nish, carry  you  back  to  past  times,  and  one  is  greatly 
surprised  to  see  people  walking  the  streets  in  modern 
dress,  and  Austrian  Uhlans.  This  effect  is  especially 
perceptible  in  the  Place  du  Marche,  encumbered  with 
watermelons,  lemons,  and  tomatoes.  The  houses  deco- 
rated with  frescoes  by  Paolo  Albasini,  with  the  sculp- 
tured ornamentations  and  robust  pillars,  have  a  most 
romantic  appearance;  columns  with  complicated  capi- 
tals succeed  in  making  this  place  a  marvelous  motif  for 
the  water-colorists  and  the  decorators.  It  is  the  most 
animated  spot  in  the  city.  The  women  are  to  be  seen 
only  at  the  windows  and  doors,  and  the  crowd  swarms 
about  the  stands  of  the  tradesmen. 

Between  the  apocryphal  tomb  of  Juliet, —  a  sort  of 
vault  half-buried  in  a  garden, —  the  tombstones  in  the 
open  Bue  des  Scaligers,  and  the  ancient  amphitheatre,  we 
chose,  not  having  time  to  visit  all,  the  Roman  Arena, 
which  is  even  better  preserved  than  the  Circus  of 
Aries. 

The  exterior  enclosure  only  is  wanting  to  this  Arena, 
five  or  six  arches  of  which  remaining  intact  make  the 
restoration  of  the  remainder  a  very  easy  matter ;  a  few 
weeks  of  repair  work  would  permit  the  bloody  games  of 
the  Circus  to  be  recommenced  there.  While  mounting 
and  descending  the  steps,  which  are  as  well  preserved  as 
though  hewn  yesterday,  we  said  to  ourselves,  "  What  an 
admirable  place  for  bull  fights  this  would  be ;  what  an 
opportunity  for  the  bulls  of  Veragua  is  afforded  by  this 

[     7i     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

arena  which  has  drunk  the  blood  of  lions  and  of  gladia- 
tors ! " 

The  cages  of  the  ferocious  animals  can  be  recognized ; 
the  entrances  and  exits  for  the  actors,  the  outlets  for  the 
people ;  the  sink  for  the  draining  of  the  water  after  the 
naval  battles  is  perfectly  distinguishable  ;  only  the  pub- 
lic lying  in  the  dust  of  Josaphat  is  wanting.  As  though 
it  had  been  desired  to  mark  the  scale  of  modern  medioc- 
rity as  compared  with  ancient  magnificence,  a  theatre 
of  wood  has  been  erected  in  the  interior  of  the  Arena, 
which  covers  only  a  few  rows  of  seats ;  twenty-two 
thousand  persons  could  be  seated  with  ease  in  the  Ro- 
man amphitheatre. 

Returning  to  the  railway  station  which  connects 
Verona  with  Venice,  we  noticed  a  movement  of  troops, 
a  beating  of  drums,  and  many  people  going  in  the  same 
direction;  we  were  told  that  seven  brigands  were  about 
to  be  shot  and  that  the  evening  before  five  had  been 
put  to  death. 

If  time  had  not  been  wanting,  we  should  have  gone 
to  witness  this  execution,  from  which,  in  our  own  coun- 
try, we  should  have  fled.  For  in  traveling,  curiosity 
sometimes  amounts  to  barbarity,  and  the  eyes  seeking 
for  novelty  do  not  even  turn  away  from  an  execution  if 
the  executioner  is  picturesque  and  the  culprit  is  of  an 
interesting  local  color. 

Happily  the  whistle  of  the  locomotive  caused  us  to 
give  up  this  cruel  notion,  and  we  seated  ourselves  in  the 
railway  carriage  divided  from  one  extremity  to  the  other 
by  a  corridor,  and  in  which  two  venerable  Capuchins  had 
already  taken  their  places,  the  first  monks  we  had  seen. 

It  was  six  o'clock ;  at  half-past  eight  we  were  due  to 
arrive  in  Venice. 


[     75     ] 


CHAPTER    VII 
VENICE 


WE  are  somewhat  ashamed  of  the  Italian  sky, 
whicli  in  Paris  one  fancies  to  be  of  an  unaltera- 
ble blue,  when  obliged  to  confess  that  on  our 
departure  from  Verona  great  black  clouds  encumbered 
the  horizon.  It  is  sad  to  begin  a  journey  to  the  land  of 
sunny  skies  with  descriptions  of  storms,  but  truth  com- 
pels us  to  confess  that  the  rain  fell  in  heavy  down-pours, 
first  in  the  distance  and  then  on  the  plain  across  which 
the  railroad  was  about  to  carry  us. 

Mountains  crowned  with  clouds,  hills  enlivened  by 
chateaux  and  pleasure  houses,  formed  the  background 
of  the  picture.  The  foreground  was  composed  of  culti- 
vated land,  very  green,  very  diversified  and  very  pictur- 
esque. The  vine  in  Italy  is  not  planted  as  it  is  in  France  ; 
it  is  made  to  ascend  and  climb  up  on  trellises  which  it 
festoons  with  its  foliage.  Nothing  is  more  pleasing  to 
the  eye  than  the  long  rows  of  trees,  which,  bound  to- 
gether by  their  arms  of  vine  branches,  have  the  air  of 
giving  their  hands  and  dancing  around  the  fields  a  great 
farandole.  They  might  be  called  a  choir  of  vegetable 
Bacchantes  who,  in  a  silent  transport,  are  celebrating 
the  ancient  festival  of  Lyaeus.  These  riotous  vines, 
running  from  branch  to  branch,  give  an  unimaginable 
elegance  to  the  landscape.  From  distance  to  distance, 
the  open  farm-houses  permit  a  view  of  laborers  under 
the  porticoes  taking  their  evening  meal  and  giving  life 
to  the  picture. 

Let  us  note  here  some  peculiarities  of  the  Italian  rail- 
way. On  the  milestones  which  mark  the  distance 
traveled,  are  also  noted  the  declination  or  elevation  of 

[      76      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

the  ground.  Signals  are  given  by  means  of  baskets  of 
a  peculiar  construction,  wliicii  are  hoisted  on  long  poles 
to  convenient  heights.  The  railway  is  a  simple  affair 
with  only  a  single  track.  To  the  stations,  which  are 
quite  numerous,  come  vendors  of  pastry,  lemonade,  and 
coffee  which  must  be  gulped  down  boiling  hot,  for  you 
have  no  more  than  touched  the  cup  to  your  lips  when 
the  strident  shriek  of  the  whistle  is  heard,  and  the  con- 
voy is  again  on  the  march.  The  railway  grazes  Vicenza, 
and  presently  arrives  at  Padua,  of  which  we  can  say 
nothing  but  the  phrase  which  is  indicative  of  the  deco- 
ration of  Angel  o  "  On  the  horizon,  the  silhouette  of  the 
Padua  of  the  Middle  Ages."  A  tower  and  some  bell- 
turrets  of  pale  tint,  detaching  themselves  by  their  black- 
ness from  a  background  of  sky,  were  all  that  we  were 
able  to  distingviish ;  but  we  recompensed  ourselves  later. 
The  weather  still  refused  to  become  reconciled ;  gusts 
of  wind,  heavy  deluges  of  rain,  flashes  of  lightning,  pur- 
sued the  train  in  its  flight ;  it  became  almost  cold,  and 
the  good  old  cloak  which  has  performed  such  loyal  ser- 
vices for  us  in  Spain,  in  Africa,  in  England,  in  Holland 
and  on  the  borders  of  the  Rhine,  now  offered  us  very 
conveniently  the  shelter  of  its  vast  girth  and  big  sleeves. 
Although  the  locomotive  Avas  drawing  us  with  great 
rapidity,  it  seemed  to  us,  so  great  was  our  impatience, 
that  we  were  traveling  in  one  of  those  cars  drawn  by 
snails,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  arabesques  of  Raphael. 
Every  man,  whether  he  be  a  poet  or  not,  chooses  for 
himself  one  or  two  cities  as  ideal  habitations,  which  he 
peoples  in  his  dreams,  in  which  he  fancies  for  himself 
the  palaces,  streets,  houses,  the  general  appearance  of 
things  according  to  an  interior  architecture,  somewhat 
as  Piranese  pleased  himself  by  building  chimerical 
structures  with  his  point  of  aquafortis,  but  which  are 
endowed  with  a  powerful  and  mysterious  reality.  What 
lays  the  foundation  of  that  imaginary  city?     It  would 

[      77      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

be  difficult  to  say.  The  narratives,  the  engravings,  the 
sight  of  a  map,  sometimes  the  euphony  or  the  singularity 
of  a  name,  a  story  read  while  one  was  very  young, —  the 
least  peculiarity  ;  all  contribute  to  it,  each  adds  its  share 
to  the  building.  As  for  us,  three  cities  have  always  en- 
chained our  attention :  Grenada,  Venice,  and  Cairo.  We 
have  been  able  to  compare  the  real  Grenada  with  our 
Grenada,  and  to  make  our  camp-bed  in  the  Alhambra ; 
but  life  is  so  badly  arranged ;  time  slips  away  so  awk- 
wardly that  as  yet  we  know  Venice  only  by  that  image 
traced  in  the  dark  chambers  of  the  brain,  an  image  often 
so  fixed  that  the  object  itself  hardly  suffices  to  efface  it. 
We  were  more  than  half  an  hour  from  the  real  Venice, 
and  we  who  had  never  wanted  a  single  grain  of  sand  to 
accelerate  its  fall  in  the  hour-glass,  so  sure  are  we  that 
death  will  come,  would  willingly  have  allowed  those 
thirty  minutes  to  be  blotted  out  of  our  life. 

As  for  Cairo,  that  is  an  account  still  to  be  settled; 
besides,  Gerard  de  Nerval  has  seen  it  for  us. 

In  spite  of  the  rain  which  lashed  our  faces,  we  leaned 
out  of  the  window  of  the  car  in  an  endeavor  to  catch  in 
the  darkness  some  distant  glimpse  of  Venice,  the  dim 
silhouette  of  a  steeple,  the  flash  of  a  light ;  but  the  dark- 
ness was  profound,  the  horizon  impenetrable ;  finally 
comes  a  certain  station  where  people  who  wish  to  leave 
the  train  at  Mestre  are  notified  to  make  ready.  It  was 
at  Mestre  that  one  formerly  embarked  for  Venice;  now 
the  railway  has  rendered  the  gondola  useless;  an  im- 
mense bridge  crosses  the  lagune  and  welds  Venice  to 
the  mainland.  Never  have  we  experienced  a  stranger 
impression.  The  train  entered  upon  the  long  causeway. 
The  sky  was  like  a  cupola  of  basalt,  streaked  with  tawny 
veins.  On  both  sides,  the  lagune  with  its  liquid  black, 
more  sombre  than  the  darkness  even,  extended  into  the 
unknown.  From  time  to  time  wan  flashes  of  lightning 
cast  their  torches  upon  the  water,  which  was  revealed  by 

[     78     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

the  sudden  flames,  and  the  train  seemed  to  ride  across 
empty  space  Hke  the  hippogriff  of  a  nightmare,  for  one 
could  distinguish  neither  sky,  water,  nor  bridge.  Cer- 
tainly, this  was  not  the  entrance  into  Venice  of  our 
dreams;  but  it  surpassed  in  its  fantasticality  all  that  the 
imagination  of  Martynn  could  have  found  in  the  way  of 
the  mysterious,  the  gigantic,  and  the  formidable,  for  a 
vista  of  Babylon  or  Nineveh.  The  storm  and  the  night 
had  prepared  the  place  which  the  thunder  etched  in  linea- 
ments of  fire,  and  the  locomotive  resembled  those  Bibli- 
cal chariots  whose  wheels  curled  up  like  flames  and 
in  which  some  prophet  was  caught  up  to  the  seventh 
heaven. 

This  giddy  ride  lasted  several  minutes,  when  the  loco- 
motive ceased  its  efforts  and  came  to  a  stop.  A  large 
terminal  station,  without  any  architectural  decoration, 
received  the  travelers,  from  whom  passports  were  de- 
manded, a  card  being  given  entitling  them  to  their 
return  later.  The  trunks  were  piled  into  a  gondola- 
omnibus  and  we  took  up  our  line  of  march.  The  Hotel 
de  I'Europe,  which  had  been  recommended  to  us,  is  at 
the  other  end  of  the  city,  a  circumstance  of  which  we 
were  ignorant,  and  which  afforded  us  the  privilege  of 
the  most  astonishing  excursion  imaginable.  It  was  not 
a  journey  in  the  blue  of  Tieck,  but  it  was  a  journey  in 
the  dark,  as  strange,  as  mysterious  as  those  which  one 
makes  in  a  nightmare  on  the  wings  of  the  bat  of  Smarra. 

To  arrive  by  night  in  a  city  of  which  one  has  dreamed 
for  long  years  is  a  very  simple  accident  of  travel,  but  one 
which  seemed  calculated  to  excite  curiosity  to  the  highest 
degree  of  exasperation.  To  enter  the  abode  of  one's 
fancy  with  bandaged  eyes  is  the  most  irritating  thing  in 
the  world.  We  had  already  discovered  this  at  Grenada, 
where  the  stage-coach  delivered  us  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  in  the  midst  of  shades  of  the  most  exasperating 
opacity. 

[      79      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Our  barque  first  followed  a  very  wide  canal,  on  the 
border  of  which  were  confusedl}^  delineated  obscure  edi- 
fices punctured  by  a  few  lighted  windows  and  a  few  lan- 
terns which  turned  straggling  beams  upon  the  black  and 
quivering  water ;  then  it  traversed  narrow  lanes  of  water, 
very  complicated  in  their  turnings,  or  at  least  they  seemed 
so  on  account  of  our  ignorance  of  the  road. 

The  storm,  which  was  drawing  to  a  close,  still  illumined 
the  sky  with  livid  lightnings  which  betrayed  to  us  deep 
perspectives  and  weird  embrasures  of  unknown  palaces. 
Every  minute  we  passed  under  bridges,  both  ends  of 
which  corresponded  with  luminous  gashes  in  the  com- 
pact and  sombre  mass  of  the  houses.  At  every  turn  a 
night-lamp  flickered  before  a  Madonna.  Strange  and 
guttural  cries  sounded  around  the  canals;  a  floating 
coffin,  in  the  end  of  which  a  ghost  was  bending,  flitted 
rapidly  by  our  side ;  a  low  window  close  to  the  ground 
enabled  us  to  see  an  interior  lighted  by  a  lamp,  like  an 
aquafortis  of  Rembrandt.  Doors,  whose  threshold  the 
waves  licked,  opened  to  emblematic  figures  which  disap- 
peared behind  them ;  stairways  bathed  their  steps  in  the 
canal  and  seemed  to  ascend  in  the  shadow  to  mysterious 
Babels;  the  parti-colored  posts  to  which  the  gondolas  are 
attached,  assumed  in  the  face  of  the  sombre  faQades  the 
attitude  of  spectres. 

At  the  top  of  the  arches  human  forms  vaguely  watched 
us  pass  by,  like  the  gloomy  figures  of  a  dream.  Some- 
times all  the  lights  were  extinguished  and  we  advanced 
in  sinister  fashion  between  four  species  of  gloom,  —  the 
oily  gloom,  damp  and  deep,  of  the  water;  the  tempestu- 
ous gloom  of  the  nocturnal  sky;  and  the  opaque  gloom 
of  the  two  walls,  on  one  of  which  the  lantern  of  our  bark 
caused  a  reddish  reflection  which  revealed  vanishing 
pedestals,  shafts  of  columns,  porticoes,  and  bars. 

All  ol)jects  in  this  obscurity  touched  by  any  wander- 
ing ra}'  assumed  appearances  which  were  mysterious, 

[     80     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

fantastic,  weird,  and  out  of  proportion.  The  water, 
always  so  formidable  at  night,  added  to  the  effect  by  its 
dull  lapping,  and  its  unresting  life.  The  light  of  infre- 
quent street-lamps  extended  in  bloody  trails,  and  the 
dark  waves,  black  as  those  of  Cocytus,  seemed  to  spread 
their  complaisant  mantle  over  many  a  crime.  We  were 
surprised  not  to  hear  some  body  fall  down  from  a  balcony 
or  from  a  half-opened  door. 

We  believed  ourselves  to  be  circulating  in  a  romance 
of  Maturin,  or  of  Lewis,  or  of  Ann  Radcliff,  illustrated 
by  Goya,  Piranese  and  Rembrandt.  The  old  stories  of 
the  Three  Inquisitors,  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  of  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs,  of  the  masked  spies,  of  the  pitfalls  and 
sink-holes,  of  the  executions  at  the  Canal  Orfano  —  all 
the  melodrama  and  romantic  environment  of  ancient 
Venice  returned  to  our  memory  in  spite  of  ourselves, 
made  still  more  sombre  by  reminiscences  of  the  "  Con- 
fessional of  the  Black  Penitents,"  and  of  "  Abellino,  or 
the  Great  Bandit."  A  cold  horror,  damp  and  dark  as 
all  that  surrounded  us,  took  possession  of  us  and  we 
thought  involuntarily  of  the  tirade  of  jNIalipiero  to 
Thisbe,  when  he  depicts  the  fear  with  which  Venice  in- 
spires him.  This  impression,  which  perhaps  may  seem 
exaggerated,  is,  how^ever,  the  exact  truth,  and  we  think 
it  would  be  difficult  for  even  the  most  positive  Philis- 
tine to  avoid.  We  will  go  further  and  maintain  that  it  is 
the  true  idea  of  Venice,  the  city  which  seems  to  have 
been  established  by  some  theatrical  decorator,  and  for 
Avhich  a  dramatic  author  seems  to  have  arransred  the 
customs  for  the  greater  interest  of  the  plots  and  their 
denouements.  The  evening  shadows  restore  the  mys- 
tery which  the  day  lays  bare,  replace  the  antique  mask 
and  domino  upon  the  citizens,  and  give  to  the  most 
simple  movements  of  life  the  charm  of  intrigue  or  of 
crime.  Each  door  which  half  opens  has  the  air  of  permit- 
ting a  lover  or  a  bravo  to  pass.     Each  gondola  which 

[      SI      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

glides  silently  by  seems  to  carry  a  pair  of  lovers  or  a 
corpse  with  a  stiletto  in  its  heart. 

At  last  our  bark  stops  at  the  foot  of  a  stairway  of 
marble,  the  lower  steps  of  which  are  bathed  by  the  sea, 
in  front  of  a  facade  which  blazes  at  all  the  openings. 
We  were  at  the  old  Palace  of  Giustiniani,  to-day  trans- 
formed into  a  hotel  like  several  other  Venetian  palaces. 
A  half-dozen  gondolas  were  grouped  around  the  door 
like  carriages  awaiting  their  master ;  a  grand  staircase, 
quite  monumental,  conducted  us  to  the  upper  floors, 
each  composed  of  a  long  and  deep  hall,  with  broad  win- 
dows, and  of  side  apartments  looking  out  upon  the 
canal  and  upon  the  land. 

While  waiting  for  supper  to  be  served,  we  leaned 
upon  the  balcony  adorned  with  marble  columns  and 
Moorish  lancets.  The  rain  had  ceased.  The  clear  sky 
was  resplendent  with  stars,  the  IMilky  Wa}^  speckled  the 
sombre  azure  with  millions  of  tiny  white  drops,  and 
numerous  meteors  streaked  the  horizon  with  their  quick- 
vanishing  rockets.  Some  brilliant  points  of  light,  stars 
of  earth,  scintillated  on  the  other  bank,  which  they  made 
distinguishable  ;  an  indistinct  silhouette  of  a  dome  was 
outlined  on  our  right,  on  the  other  side  of  the  water, 
and  leaning  forward  a  little,  we  discovered  on  our  left 
a  twinkling  line  of  lights,  which  we  concluded  to  be  the 
lamps  of  the  Piazetta,  Some  little  sparks  like  those 
which  run  along  burning  paper,  twisted  about  in  the 
black  depths  below  us.  They  were  the  lanterns  of  the 
gondolas  which  were  coming  and  going. 

It  was  not  yet  late  and  we  might  have  gone  abroad ; 
but  we  had  promised  ourselves  to  preserve  intact  for  the 
morrow  the  first  view  of  the  Place  Saint  Mark.  We  had 
the  resolution,  therefore,  not  to  leave  our  room,  where 
we  were  not  long  in  going  to  sleep,  in  spite  of  the  stings 
of  mosquitoes,  revolving  in  our  minds  the  Venice  of 
Canaletto,  of  "Bonnington,  of  Joyant,  and  of  Wyld. 

[      82      ] 


VENICE 

St.  Mark's  Square,  with  the  Procuratie  Vecchie  and  Nuove 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

In  the  morning  our  first  movement  was  to  run  to 
the  balcony.  We  were  at  the  entrance  to  the  Grand 
Canal,  opposite  the  customhouse,  a  fine  building  with 
rustic  colmnns,  supporting  a  square  tower,  terminated  by 
two  Hercules  kneeling  back  to  back  and  sustaining  a 
globe  on  their  robust  shoulders,  on  which  revolves  a  rude 
figure  of  Fortune,  holding  in  her  hand  the  two  ends  of  a 
veil  which  form  a  weather-vane  and  yields  to  the  slight- 
est breeze;  for  the  figure  is  hollow  like  the  Giraldo  of 
Seville.  Near  the  customhouse  is  the  round  white 
cupola  of  Santa  Maria  della  Salute^  with  its  pentagonal 
staircase  and  population  of  statues. 

An  Eve  in  most  honest  dishabille  smiles  at  us  from 
the  top  of  a  cornice  under  the  smi's  rays.  We  immedi- 
ately recognized  the  Salute  from  the  fine  picture  of 
Canaletto,  which  is  at  the  Museum.  Far  off  can  be  seen 
the  point  of  the  Giudecca  and  the  Isle  of  St.  Georges  the 
Great,  where  the  Church  of  Palladio  shows  its  Greek 
facade,  its  Oriental  dome,  and  its  Venetian  steeple  of 
the  most  vivid  rose, 

A  swimming  school  was  installed  at  the  mouth  of  the 
canal,  and  the  rigging  of  divers  craft  of  varying  tonnage, 
from  the  fishing  boat  to  the  steamer  and  the  three-master, 
was  outlined  in  the  blue  serenity  of  the  morning.  The 
boats  which  victual  the  city  arrive  by  sail  or  oars.  It  was  a 
ravishing  picture,  as  bright  as  that  of  the  night  before 
had  been  sombre. 

Going  on  foot  in  Venice  is  a  difficult  thing  for  a  stranger. 
Our  first  need,  therefore,  was  to  hire  a  gondola.  The 
gondola  has  been  much  abused  in  comic  operas,  romances, 
and  novels.  There  would  be  no  reason  for  this  if  it  were 
better  known.  We  will  give  here  a  detailed  descrij)tion 
of  it.  The  gondola  is  a  natural  production  of  Venice,  an 
animated  being  having  its  special  and  local  life,  a  kind 
of  fish  which  can  subsist  only  in  the  water  of  a  canal. 
The  lagune  and  the  gondola  are  inseparable,  and  one  com- 
[     83     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

pletes  the  other.  Without  the  gondola,  Venice  would 
be  impossible.  The  city  is  a  Madrepore  of  which  the 
gondola  is  the  mollusk.  It  alone  can  meander  through 
the  inextricable  network  of  the  aquatic  streets. 

The  gondola,  long  and  narrow,  raised  at  both  ends, 
drawing  very  little  water,  has  the  form  of  a  skate.  Its 
prow  is  armed  with  a  piece  of  iron,  smooth  and  polished, 
which  vaguely  recalls  the  curved  neck  of  a  swan,  or 
rather  the  finger-board  of  a  violin  with  its  pegs.  Six 
teeth,  the  interstices  of  which  are  sometimes  ornamented 
with  pinking,  contribute  to  this  resemblance.  This  piece  of 
iron  serves  for  decoration,  for  defense,  and  for  comiterpoise, 
the  craft  being  more  heavily  loaded  in  the  stern.  On 
the  sheathing  of  the  gondola,  near  the  prow  and  the 
poop,  are  fastened  two  pieces  of  wood  made  like  the 
yokes  of  oxen,  in  which  the  rower  plies  his  oar  standing 
on  a  small  platform. 

All  that  is  visible  of  a  gondola  is  coated  with  tar  or 
black  paint.  A  carpet  more  or  less  elegant  decorates 
the  bottom  of  tlie  boat ;  the  cabin,  called  the  felce,  is  in 
the  middle,  and  is  easily  removed  when  it  is  desired  to 
substitute  an  awning  for  it,  a  modern  piece  of  degeneracy 
at  which  every  good  Venetian  groans. 

The  felce  is  draped  entirely  with  black  cloth,  and  fur- 
nished with  two  soft  cushions  of  morocco  of  the  same 
color ;  in  addition,  there  are  two  seats  on  the  sides  capa- 
ble of  holding  four  persons.  In  each  side  there  are  cut 
two  windows  which  are  ordinarily  left  open,  but  which 
can  be  closed  in  three  ways  :  first,  by  a  beveled  Vene- 
tian ghiss ;  secondly,  by  a  window-blind  with  movable 
blades,  enabling  the  occupants  to  see  without  being  seen  ; 
thirdly,  by  a  panel  of  cloth,  over  which,  to  increase  the 
mystery,  the  cloth  of  the  felce  can  also  be  dropped. 
These  different  systems  move  on  a  transverse  slide.  The 
door,  by  which  one  enters  backwards,  since  it  is  difficult 
to  turn  aromid  in  that  narrow  space,  has  only  a  glass 

[     84     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

and  a  panel.  That  part  which  is  of  wood  is  carved  with 
more  or  less  elegance,  according  to  the  wealth  of  the 
owner  or  the  taste  of  the  gondolier.  On  the  left  frame 
of  this  door  a  copper  shield  surmounted  bj^  a  crown  glit- 
ters ;  it  is  on  this  that  one  has  his  coat-of-arms  or  his 
cipher  engraved ;  beneath,  a  small  frame  supplied  with  a 
glass  and  opening  into  the  interior  contains  the  image 
for  which  the  owner  or  the  gondolier  has  a  special  devo- 
tion :  the  Holy  Virgin,  Saint  Mark,  Saint  Theodore,  or 
Saint  George. 

It  is  on  this  side  also  that  the  lantern  is  hung,  a  cus- 
tom which  is  gradually  giving  way,  since  many  of  the 
gondolas  run  without  that  star  in  front.  On  account  of 
the  coat-of-arms,  the  saint  and  the  lantern,  the  left  is 
the  place  of  honor ;  it  is  there  that  the  ladies  are  placed, 
or  aged  or  distinguished  persons.  At  the  bottom  a 
panel  which  can  be  moved  permits  communication  with 
the  gondolier,  who  is  posted  on  the  poop,  the  only  one 
who  really  directs  the  craft,  his  oar  being  upon  occasion 
either  a  paddle  or  a  boat-hook.  Two  silken  cords  with 
handles  assist  you  to  rise  when  you  want  to  go  out  —  for 
one  is  seated  very  low  down ;  the  cloth  of  the  felce  is 
enhvened  on  the  exterior  by  tufts  of  silk  somewhat  sim- 
ilar to  those  of  the  priests'  birettas,  and  when  one  wishes 
to  shut  himself  in  completely  he  spreads  himself  out  in 
the  rear  of  the  cabin  like  a  pall  on  a  coffin.  To  end  the 
description  let  us  say  that  on  the  interior  sheathing  some 
species  of  arabesques  are  raised  in  white  on  the  black 
ground  of  the  wood. 

All  this  does  not  give  a  very  gay  appearance,  and  yet, 
if  the  Beppo  of  Lord  Byron  is  to  be  believed,  scenes  as 
droll  as  in  funeral  coaches  happen  in  these  hlack  gondolas. 
Madame  Malibran,  who  did  not  like  to  enter  these  little 
catafalques,  endeavored,  but  unsuccessfully,  to  change  the 
color  of  them.  This  tint,  which  would  seem  to  us  lugu- 
brious, does  not  seem  so  at  all  to  the  Venetians,  accus- 

[      85     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

tomed  to  the  black  by  the  snmptuaiy  edicts  of  the  ancient 
Republic,  and  Tyitli  wliom  the  water  hearses,  the  funeral 
pall,  and  the  undertaker's  assistants  are  all  in  red. 

We  chose  a  gondola  with  two  rowers.  He  of  the 
poop,  bronzed  and  rebronzed  by  the  sun,  with  his  little 
Venetian  cap  on  the  top  of  his  head,  his  thick  ring  of 
tawny  beard,  his  roUed-iip  sleeves,  his  girdle  and  full  pan- 
taloons, recalled  quite  well  the  ancient  type ;  he  of  the 
prow,  much  more  of  a  coxcomb  and  modernized,  wore  a 
cap  from  which  escaped  a  curl  of  hair,  a  striped  calico 
vest,  the  trousers  of  a  gentleman,  and  mingled  the  type 
of  gondolier  with  that  of  domestic  servant.  As  the 
weather  became  clear,  a  canopy  with  blue  and  white 
bands  replaced,  to  our  great  regret,  the  felcc  under  which 
we  would  have  willingly  stifled  with  the  heat,  for  the  sake 
of  our  love  of  the  local  color. 

We  demanded  to  be  taken  at  once  to  the  Place  Saint 
Mark,  which  we  found  where  the  line  of  gas-lamps  had 
caused  us  to  suppose  it  was  situated  the  evening  before. 
In  standing  out  to  sea  we  were  able  to  examine  the  fa^ 
9ade  of  our  hotel,  which  was  really  very  magnificent  with 
its  three  stories  of  balconies,  its  Moorish  windows,  and  its 
columns  of  marble.  But  for  an  unfortunate  sign  placed 
above  the  portico  and  containing  these  words,  '•'•Hotel  de 
rUurojje,  chcz  Marseille,''^  the  Giustiniani  Palace  would 
still  be  exactly  as  one  sees  it  in  the  marvelous  map  of 
Albert  Durer,  with  the  exception  of  two  windows  on  the 
third  floor ;  and  the  former  owners,  were  they  to  return 
from  the  other  world  in  the  gondola  of  Charon,  the  gon- 
dolier of  the  infernal  regions,  would  find  without  diffi- 
culty their  dwelling  on  the  Grand  Canal  intact,  although 
dishonored.  Venice  has  this  peculiarity,  namely,  that 
although  her  drama  may  be  finished,  the  decorations  of 
the  past  still  remain  in  2"»lace. 

The  gondoliers  row  standing  up,  bending  forward  on 
their  oars.     It  is  surprising  that  they  do  not  fall  every 

[      86     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

minute  into  the  water,  since  all  the  weight  of  their  bodies 
is  thrown  forward.  It  is  only  long  habit  which  gives 
them  the  necessary  aplomb  for  holding  themselves  always 
in  suspense.  The  apprenticeship  must  cost  more  than 
one  ducking  ;  nothing  excels  their  dexterity  in  avoiding 
shocks,  the  precision  with  which  they  turn  a  corner  of  a 
street,  approach  a  landing  or  stairway  ;  the  gondola  is  so 
sensitive  to  the  least  impression  that  one  might  call  it  a 
living  being. 

A  few  strokes  of  the  oars  very  soon  brought  us  face  to 
face  with  one  of  the  most  marvelous  spectacles  ever 
afforded  the  contemplation  of  the  human  eye  —  the  Pia- 
zetta  seen  from  the  sea!  Standing  at  the  prow  of  the 
motionless  gondola,  we  gazed  for  some  time,  in  mute 
ecstasy,  at  that  picture  without  rival  in  this  world,  and 
the  only  one,  possibly,  that  the  imagination  cannot  surpass. 

On  the  left,  adopting  the  point  of  view  of  the  open 
sea,  the  trees  of  the  royal  gardens  are  first  perceived, 
tracing  a  green  line  above  a  white  terrace ;  then  the 
Zecca  (Hotel  de  la  ^Nlonnaie),  an  edifice  of  robust  archi- 
tecture, and  the  ancient  Library,  the  work  of  Sansovino, 
with  its  elegant  arcades  and  crown  of  mythological 
statues. 

On  the  right,  separated  by  a  space  which  forms  the 
Piazetta,  which  is  the  vestibule  of  the  Place  Saint  Mark, 
the  Ducal  Palace  offers  its  vermilion  facade  lozenged 
with  white  and  rose  marble  ;  its  massive  pillars,  support- 
ing a  gallery  of  small  columns,  the  ribs  of  which  contain 
quadrilobal  trefoils  of  six  lancet  windows;  its  monu- 
mental balcony  enlivened  by  corbels,  niches,  bell-turrets, 
statuettes,  which  a  Holy  Virgin  dominates ;  its  acroteria 
carving  its  acanthus  leaves  upon  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
and  the  spiral  fillet  which  twists  around  its  angles  and 
terminates  in  a  lofty  pinnacle. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  Piazetta,  alongside  the  Library, 
the  Campanile  rises  to  a  lofty  height,  an  immense  brick 

[      87     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

tower,  the  sharp-pointed  roof  of  which  is  surmounted  by 
an  angel  of  gold.  On  the  side  of  the  Ducal  Palace, 
Saint  Clark's  shows  a  corner  of  its  doorway,  which  faces 
the  Piazza.  The  perspective  is  formed  by  several  arcades 
of  the  old  Procuraties,  and  the  clock  tower  with  its 
Jacquemarts  of  bronze,  its  lion  of  Saint  Mark  on  its 
blue  starry  ground,  and  its  great  dial  of  azure,  on  which 
the  twenty-four  hours  are  inscribed. 

On  the  first  plane,  in  front  of  the  landing-place  of  the 
gondolas,  between  the  Library  and  the  Ducal  Palace, 
rise  two  enormous  colvunns,  each  of  a  single  piece  of 
African  granite.  On  the  left-hand  one,  coming  from 
the  sea,  stands  in  triumphant  attitude,  his  forehead  cov- 
ered with  a  nimbus  of  metal,  sword  by  his  side,  lance  at 
his  wrist,  his  hand  supporting  his  target,  a  Saint  Theo- 
dore, of  beautiful  contour,  trampling  under  foot  a  croco- 
dile. On  the  right-hand  one,  the  lion  of  Saint  Mark,  in 
bronze,  the  wings  outstretched,  his  claw  on  his  Gospel, 
turns  his  tail  to  the  crocodile  of  Saint  Theodore  with  the 
most  morose  and  sullen  air  possible  for  a  heraldic  animal 
to  assume.  The  two  monsters  do  not  seem  to  be  on 
good  terms  with  each  other. 

It  is  said  to  be  of  ill  omen  to  disembark  between 
these  two  columns,  where  in  other  days  executions  were 
performed,  and  we  begged  the  gondolier  to  land  us  by  the 
stairway  of  the  Zccca  or  at  the  Bridge  de  la  Faille,  not  at 
all  wishing  to  meet  the  end  of  Marino  Faliero,  to  whom 
misfortune  came  through  his  having  been  thrown  by  a 
tempest  at  the  feet  of  these  redoubtable  pillars. 

Above  the  Ducal  Palace  the  new  prisons  can  be  seen, 
to  which  it  is  bound  by  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  a  kind  of 
cenotaph  suspended  above  the  Canal  dc  la  Faille ;  then 
a  curved  line  of  palaces,  of  houses,  churches,  edifices  of 
all  sorts,  which  forms  the  "  Wharf  of  the  Slaves,"  and  is 
terminated  by  the  solid  mass  of  verdure  of  the  Public 
Gardens,  the  point  of  which  rmis  into  the  sea. 

[      88      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Near  the  Zecca  the  Grand  Canal  empties  and  in  front 
appears  the  customhouse,  which  with  the  Public  Gar- 
dens form  the  two  ends  of  this  panoramic  arc  on  which 
Venice  extends. 

We  have  noted  as  correctly  as  it  was  possible  for  us 
to  do,  the  principal  features  of  the  picture ;  but  what  we 
cannot  render  is  the  effect,  the  color,  the  movement,  the 
shimmering  of  air  and  water,  the  life. 

How  to  express  those  rosy  tints  of  the  Ducal  Palace 
which  seem  to  be  living  as  flesh ;  that  snowy  whiteness 
of  the  statues,  dehneating  their  contour  in  the  azure  of 
Veronese  and  of  Titian  ;  those  reds  of  the  Campanile 
that  caress  the  sun ;  those  splendors  of  a  distant  gilding  ; 
those  thousand  aspects  of  the  sea  as  clear  as  a  mirror,  as 
swarming  with  spangles  as  the  skirt  of  a  dancer  ?  Who 
will  paint  that  vague,  luminous  atmosphere  full  of  rays 
and  of  mists,  from  which  the  sun  does  not  exclude  the 
clouds ;  that  coming  and  going  of  gondolas,  of  boats,  of 
galiots ;  those  red  or  white  sails,  those  ships  familiarly 
supporting  their  prows  against  the  whai*f,  with  their 
myriad  picturesque  accessories  of  pavilions,  of  lines  and 
nets  spread  out  to  dry  ;  the  sailors  loading  and  unloading 
the  ships,  the  chests  that  are  opened,  the  casks  that  are 
rolled,  the  motley  idlers  of  the  mole,  —  Dalmatians, 
Greeks,  Levantines  and  others  that  Canaletto  would 
depict  with  a  single  stroke,  —  how  make  all  this  visible 
simultaneously  as  in  nature,  by  means  of  a  successive 
process  ?  For  the  poet,  less  fortunate  than  the  painter 
or  the  musician,  can  only  arrange  a  single  line ;  the  former 
has  a  whole  palette ;  the  latter,  a  whole  orchestra. 

The  landing-place  of  the  Piazetta  is  adorned  with 
Gothic  lanterns  embellished  with  figures  of  saints,  fixed 
on  poles  which  are  sunk  in  the  sea.  One  of  these  lan- 
terns was  given  by  the  Duchess  of  Berry.  The  gon- 
doliers make  a  disturbance  at  tliis  landing-place  more 
frequently  than  at  any  other. 

[      89      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

In  order  to  approach  the  shore  it  is  necessary  to  use 
the  hatchet-shaped  iron  in  the  prow  as  a  wedge,  by  the 
aid  of  which  this  thick  mass  can  be  divided. 

When  one  approaches,  a  crowd  of  rapscallions,  old 
and  young,  in  rags,  run  forward,  holding  in  their  hands 
a  staff  armed  with  a  nail  which  hooks  the  boat  like  a 
gafE  and  holds  it  while  you  put  your  foot  on  shore,  an 
operation  which  at  the  first  attempt  is  somewhat  diffi- 
cult owing  to  the  extreme  mobility'-  of  the  frail  vessel. 
You  may  think  that  this  solicitude  of  the  gamins  has  no 
aim  but  to  prevent  you  from  falKng  into  the  water  or 
taking  a  foot-bath  on  a  lower  step ;  but  a  dirty  hand  or 
greasy  cap,  humbly  extended,  will  invite  you  to  drop 
into  it  the  sou  or  Austrian  centime,  as  a  recompense  for 
this  shght  service. 

On  the  pedestal  of  the  two  columns  are  seated  gon- 
doliers waiting  for  a  job,  beggars,  children  emaciated 
and  half-naked,  who  seek  their  living  on  the  stairways 
of  Venice,  an  entire  picaresque  population  loving  their 
far  niente  and  the  sun.  These  pedestals  were  in  other 
days  adorned  with  sculptures  which  are  to-day  almost 
effaced  by  the  friction,  and  which  seem  to  have  repre- 
sented figurines  holding  fruits  and  foliage.  How  many 
seats  of  breeches  have  found  it  necessary  to  use  this 
granite  is  a  problem  which  we  leave  to  the  mathema- 
ticians to  solve.  In  order  to  finish  with  the  columns  let 
us  say  that  that  of  Saint  Theodore  leans  a  little  toward 
the  Library,  and  that  of  the  lion  of  Saint  Mark  toward 
the  Ducal  Palace. 

At  the  first  step  one  takes  toward  the  Piazetta^  an 
Austrian  soldier,  striped  with  yellow  and  black  like  a 
zebra,  is  encountered,  and  four  pieces  of  artillery,  their 
carriages  painted  yellow,  their  moutks  stopped  up,  the 
caisson  in  the  rear,  in  a  sort  of  artillery  park  backed  up 
against  the  arcades  of  the  Doges'  Palace.  Apart  from 
all  political  ideas,  this  sight  causes  a  shock  like  a  discord 

[      9<^      ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

in  the  concert  of  things  to  be  admired ;  it  is  brutahty 
which  sprawls  dully  in  the  midst  of  poetry. 

The  fa9ade  of  the  Ducal  Palace  which  looks  out  upon 
the  Piazetta  is  hke  that  which  looks  toward  the  sea ;  it 
has,  like  the  other,  a  monumental  casement  from  which 
Manin,  in  resigning  the  provisory  government  after  the 
capitulation  of  Venice,  in  1849,  harangued  the  people  for 
the  last  time. 

At  the  end  of  the  Piazetta,  the  Piazza  is  met  with, 
which  forms  a  square  with  it  and  which  is,  as  its  name 
implies,  much  larger.  The  four  sides  of  the  Piazza  are  oc- 
cupied by  the  facade  of  the  Church  of  Saint  j\Iark,  situated 
next  the  Ducal  Palace  ;  by  the  clock  tower,  the  Procura- 
ties,  old  and  new,  and  an  unsightly  luodern  palace  of 
classic  taste,  stupidly  built  in  1809  in  order  to  make  a 
salle  du  trone,  in  place  of  the  delicious  church  of  San 
Germiniano,  the  charming  style  of  which  corresponded 
so  well  to  the  Basilica. 

The  Campanile,  adorned  at  its  base  by  a  charming 
little  edifice  of  Sansovino  which  is  called  the  Logette,  is 
isolated  and  is  placed  at  the  angle  of  the  new  Procura- 
ties  ;  on  the  same  line  ahnost  are  planted  the  three  masts 
which  supported  the  standards  of  the  Republic. 

In  going  back  to  the  bottom  of  the  Place,  one  enjoys 
a  really  fairy-like  sight  which  dazzles  you,  however 
prepared  for  it  you  may  be  by  pictures  and  descriptions. 
Saint  Mark  is  before  you  with  its  five  cupolas;  its  porches 
glistening  with  mosaics  on  a  groundwork  of  gold ;  its  slen- 
der steeples ;  its  immense  area  of  glass-work  before  which 
the  four  horses  of  Lysippus  paw  the  ground;  its  gallery  of 
columns ;  its  winged  lion ;  its  gables  adorned  with  foliage 
and  bearing  statues;  its  pillars  of  porphyry  and  antique 
marbles  ;  its  aspect  of  temple,  basilica  and  mosque ;  a 
strange  and  mysterious  edifice,  exquisite  and  barbarous,  an 
immense  accumulation  of  riches,  a  church  of  pirates,  made 
of  fragments  stolen  or  conquered  from  all  civilizations. 

[     91     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

A  vivid  light  makes  the  great  evaiigehst  glisten  upon 
his  sky  starred  with  gold  ;  the  mosaics  shine  like  spangles  ; 
the  cupolas  of  a  silvery  gray  grow  round  like  the  domes 
of  Saint  Sophia  at  Constantinople,  and  flocks  of  pigeons 
fly  from  the  cornices  and  balustrades  every  moment, 
coming  to  light  familiarly  upon  the  Place.  One  might 
regard  it  as  an  Oriental  dream  petrified  by  the  might  of 
some  enchanter,  or  a  Moorish  church  or  a  Christian 
mosque  built  by  a  converted  caliph. 

On  this  walk  we  did  not  pay  attention  to  any  particu- 
lar detail,  and  we  furnish  you  with  our  impression,  in- 
complete but  general,  and  colored  by  that  vivid  shade 
which  the  first  glance  gives. 

We  will  ascend  now,  if  you  please,  to  the  Campanile. 
It  is  our  habit  upon  arriving  in  a  city ;  we  prefer  this 
map  in  relief  to  all  the  plans  and  all  the  guides  in  the 
world.  One  in  this  way  at  once  fixes  in  his  mind  the 
configuration  of  the  j)lace  he  is  going  to  dwell  in. 

Like  the  Giralda  of  Seville,  the  Campanile  has  no 
staircase.  The  ascent  is  made  on  an  inclined  plane  which 
could  be  climbed  on  horseback  so  easy  is  the  grade.  The 
interior  of  the  Campanile  is  filled  with  a  cage  of  bricks, 
and  which  is  supplied  with  windows  with  great  length- 
wise openings.  At  each  pillar  a  small  loophole  arranged 
on  one  of  the  faces  of  the  tower  permits  sufficient  light 
to  filter  through.  After  having  climbed  some  distance 
a  platform  is  reached  where  the  clocks  are.  Columns  of 
green  and  red  marble  support  four  arcades  on  each  side 
of  the  Camjjanile,  and  permit  the  view  to  extend  to  the 
four  quarters  of  the  horizon  ;  a  spiral  stairway  allows  one 
to  ascend  still  further,  as  far  as  the  foot  of  the  gilded 
angel ;  but  it  is  a  useless  fatigue,  for  the  whole  jjanorama 
of  Venice  unfolds  itself  at  this  first  station. 

If,  leaning  on  the  balcony,  with  face  turned  toward 
the  side  where  the  sea  is,  one  looks  beneath  him,  one  sees 
first  the  roof  of  the  Library  of  Sansovino,  now  the  Royal 

[      92      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

Palace,  peopled  by  Veniis,  Neptune,  ^Nlars,  and  other 
allegorical  figures ;  then  that  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  all 
covered  with  lead ;  one  looks  also  into  the  Court  .of 
the  Zecca  ;  and  the  Piazetta,  with  its  columns  and  its  gon- 
dolas, displays  its  pavement  divided  into  compartments. 
Further  off  is  the  sea  dotted  with  islands  and  craft  of  all 
kinds. 

Saint  George  the  Great,  with  its  red  steeple,  its  two 
white  bastions,  its  dock,  its  girdle  of  boats  attracted  by 
the  freedom  of  the  port,  appears  on  the  first  plane.  A 
canal  separates  it  from  the  Giudecca,  that  maritime  sub- 
urb of  Venice  which  turns  toward  the  city  a  row  of 
houses  and  toward  the  sea  a  girdle  of  gardens.  The 
Giudecca  has  two  churches,  Santa  Maria  and  the  Re- 
deemer, the  white  cupola  of  which  shelters  a  convent  of 
Capuchin  monks. 

Beyond  Saint  George's  let  Sanita  is  to  be  seen,  a  small 
islet ;  San  Servolo,  where  the  insane  asylum  is  located  ; 
les  Armeniens^  a  monastery  and  college  of  Oriental  lan- 
guages ;  further  still  the  Lido,  a  dry  and  sandy  beach, 
which  forms  with  the  long,  narrow,  and  low-lying  tongue 
of  land  of  Malamocco,  a  rampart  for  Venice  against  the 
waves  of  the  Adriatic. 

Back  of  la  Giudecca,  sinking  more  toward  the  horizon, 
is  San  Clemente,  a  place  of  penitence  and  of  detention  for 
priests  under  discipline ;  Poveglia,  where  vessels  are 
quarantined  ;  and  further  still  than  the  line  of  Malamocco, 
almost  invisible  in  the  distance,  is  the  little  island  of 
Saint  Peter.  These  islands  are  indicated  to  the  eye  by 
one  of  those  tall  red  Venetian  steeples  of  which  the  Cam- 
panile seems  to  be  the  prototype. 

On  this  sea  there  is  a  constant  movement  of  boats, 
gondolas,  and  vessels  of  all  kinds.  The  steam-boat 
from  Trieste,  at  the  moment  we  were  at  the  top  of 
the  steeple,  arrived,  pouring  forth  volumes  of  smoke, 
turning  its  wheels,  and  making  a  great  disturbance  of 

[      93      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

the  peaceful  water,  the  bottom  of  which  was  visible  in 
places ;  rows  of  stakes  mark  on  the  lagune  the  channels 
which  are  navigable  for  ships ;  for  the  ordinary  depth  is 
only  from  three  to  four  feet.  These  posts  seen  from  this 
height  have  the  appearance  of  men  fishing,  standing  in 
the  water  up  to  their  hips.  Further  off,  the  eye  loses 
itself  in  great  circles  of  azure  which  might  be  mistaken 
for  the  sky,  if  some  sail  gilded  by  a  sunbeam  did  not 
apprise  us  of  our  error. 

The  transparency  of  the  sky,  the  limpidity  of  the 
water,  the  brilliancy  of  the  light,  the  purity  of  the  sil- 
houette, the  strength  and  delicacy  of  tint  give  to  this  im- 
mense view  a  striking  and  dazzling  splendor. 

In  turning  toward  the  base  of  the  Piazza,  a  perspective 
also  is  presented :  the  continuation  of  la  Giudecca ;  the 
customhouse,  with  its  dishevelled  Fortune,  the  ball 
of  which,  having  been  recently  regilded,  shines  with  a 
wholly  new  brilliancy ;  the  Salute  and  its  double  dome ; 
the  entrance  to  the  Grand  Canal,  which  in  spite  of  its 
width,  soon  disappears  between  the  houses  ;  San  Mose 
and  its  bell-tower,  joined  to  the  church  by  a  bridge ; 
Saint  Stephano,  mth  brick  tower,  surmounted  by  a  statue 
which  tramples  on  a  crescent ;  the  great  reddish  church 
of  Santa  Maria  Gloriosa  dci  Frari,  lifting  above  the  roof 
its  angular  porch;  the  black  cupola  of  Saint  Simeon  the 
Less,  the  only  one  in  Venice  of  this  color,  because  in- 
stead of  being  covered  with  lead,  it  is  roofed  with  copjoer, 
which  in  the  midst  of  the  silver  caps  of  the  other  churches 
produces  the  effect  of  the  armor  of  the  mysterious  knights 
in  the  tournaments  of  the  Middle  Ages  ;  there  at  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  canal,  always  invisible,  is  San  Geremia, 
whose  dome  and  tower  received  a  few  bullets  during  the 
siege  ;  behind  San  Geremia  the  trees  of  the  botanical 
gardens  are  covered  with  green,  and  the  Scalzi  appear, 
alongside  the  railway  station,  their  fa9ade  in  process  of 
repair,  covered  with  carpenters. 

[      94      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

On  the  extreme  horizon  undulate  in  lines  of  azure  the 
Euganean  mountains,  ramifications  of  the  Friulian  Alps. 
At  the  foot  of  the  mountains  great  green  bands  denote 
fertile  cultivation  of  the  vigorous  soil,  and  Padua  outlines 
its  silhouette.  The  railway  bridge,  easily  visible  from 
this  height,  crosses  the  lagune,  binds  Venice  to  the  Con- 
tinent, and  makes  a  peninsula  of  an  island.  Fusine  and 
Mestre  are  on  this  side,  the  former  on  the  right  of  the 
railway,  the  latter  on  the  left. 

The  third  face  of  the  Campanile,  looking  toward  the 
clock  tower,  frames  in  its  window  Santa  Maria  delV  Orto, 
whose  lofty  red  steeple  and  great  roof  of  tiles  are  per- 
fectly distinguishable ;  the  Holy  Apostles,  with  its 
white  tower,  adorned  by  a  clock-dial  and  a  cross  on  a 
ball;  and  the  Jesuits  making  the  mauled  and  distorted 
statues  of  their  pediment  dance  on  the  blue  of  the  sea. 

It  is  peculiar  that  nowhere  can  any  appearance  of  a 
canal  be  discovered ;  the  cuttings  which  these  streets  of 
water  ought  to  make  in  the  islands  of  houses  are  not 
even  suspected;  the  whole  forms  a  compact  block,  a 
coagulated  tempest  of  tiles  and  roof  in  which  the 
churches  float  on  the  surface  like  vessels  at  anchor. 

In  inclining  a  little  toward  the  right,  the  eye  encoun- 
ters the  bell-turret  of  the  gray  cupola  of  Saint  John  and 
Saint  Paul,  a  vast  brick  buikling ;  the  elegant  tower  of 
Santa  Maria  Formosa,  whose  whiteness  trenches  on  the 
red  tints  of  the  enscmhlc  ;  and  further  off  the  Isle  of  San 
Secundo,  a  small  fortress  in  the  sea.  Farther  on  the 
cemetery,  framed  in  rose-colored  walls  and  flanked  by 
two  churches.  Saint  Christopher  and  Saint  Michael,  looks 
like  a  small  green  stain  speckled  with  black  crosses.  In 
the  same  direction,  in  the  middle  of  the  lagune,  Murano, 
where  the  Venetian  glassware  is  manufactured  which  be- 
comes the  ornament  of  the  dressing-table,  attracts  atten- 
tion by  the  red  Campanile  of  its  Church  of  the  Angels, 
the  roof  of  Saint  Peter,  and  three  great  cypress  trees 

[      95     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

which  rise  like  three  sombre  masts  in  a  group  of  houses 
and  trees. 

Beyond  the  Ducal  Palace,  we  discover  Saint  Francis 
of  the  Vineyard,  and  its  spire,  remarkable  for  its  red 
panels  bordered  with  black;  Saint  Andrew  and  Saint 
Zacharias,  the  grayish  dome  of  which,  surmounted  by  a 
cross  with  balls,  like  the  cross  of  Saint  Mark,  and  a  lofty 
fagade  composed  of  three  rounded  pediments,  emerge 
from  the  midst  of  the  houses ;  the  Arsenal,  with  its 
square  tower,  rosy  at  top,  white  at  its  base,  its  reservoirs, 
where  the  water  gleams,  its  great  sheds,  constructed  in 
the  form  of  arches  or  aqueducts,  its  pulleys,  engines,  and 
general  aspect  of  the  storehouse  of  a  rope  manufactory^ ; 
and  further  off  the  dome  and  spire  of  Saint  Peter  of 
Castello ;  the  triangular  pediment  and  slender  spire  of 
Saint  Helena. 

Toward  the  sea,  on  the  line  of  the  open  sea,  Burano, 
Mazorbo,  and  Torcello  are  outlined,  where  dwelt  the  first 
Venetians.  The  remoteness  only  permits  the  eye  to 
grasp  some  green  patches  of  cultivation,  some  specks  of 
houses  and  three  churches,  one  of  which  is  more  appar- 
ent than  the  others. 

Then  there  is  the  sky  and  the  water,  a  festoon  of  foam 
which  whitens,  a  passing  sail,  a  gull  flapping  its  wings  in 
the  blue  and  luminous  vapor ;  a  clear  immensity,  the 
grandest  of  all  immensities  ! 

On  the  ledge  of  this  window  we  read,  written  in  let- 
ters of  a  characteristic  calligraphy,  this  inscription  cut 
with  a  knife :  '■'■  Adrian  Zieglcr,  IGOJ^r  Was  this  an  an- 
cestor of  the  modern  painter  of  that  name  who  has  left 
on  the  front  of  the  Campanile  this  trace  of  his  passage 
through  Venice? 

Now  we  can  redescend  into  the  city,  to  go  about  it  and 
examine  it  in  all  its  details ;  we  now  know  its  general 
configuration. 

C     96      ] 


'AOY^^^ 


VENICE 

St.  MarK's  {front),  tenth  to  fifteenth,  centuries 


CHAPTER    VIII 
SAINT    MARK'S 


IN  describing  the  Piazza,  we  have  given  the  general 
aspect  of  Saint  jNIark's  as  it  can  be  grasped  at  the 
first  glance  ;  but  Saint  INIark's  is  a  world  concerning 
which  volumes  could  be  written,  and  we  must  be  per- 
mitted to  return  to  it. 

Like  the  Mosque  of  Cordova,  with  which  it  has  more 
than  one  point  of  resemblance,  the  Basilica  of  Saint 
Mark  has  more  breadth  than  height,  contrary  to  the  cus- 
tom of  Gotliic  churches,  which  launch  themselves  toward 
the  sky  with  a  profusion  of  pointed  arches,  spires,  and 
steeples.  The  great  central  cupola  is  only  110  feet  high. 
Saint  Mark  has  preserved  the  character  of  primitive 
Christianity,  which  endeavored,  when  scarcely  emerged 
from  the  Catacombs,  not  as  yet  having  formulated  any- 
thing of  art,  to  build  itself  a  church  out  of  the  debris  of 
ancient  temples  and  the  data  of  pagan  ai't.  Begun  in 
979  under  the  Doge  Pierre  Orseolo,  the  Basilica  of  Saint 
Mark  was  slowly  raised,  being  enriched  in  each  century 
with  some  new  treasure,  some  new  beauty,  and,  a  peculiar 
circumstance  which  upsets  all  idea  of  proportion,  this 
mass  of  columns,  of  capitals,  of  bas-relief,  of  enamel,  of 
mosaics,  this  mixture  of  Greek,  Roman,  Byzantine, 
Arab,  Gothic  styles,  has  resulted  in  a  most  harmonioiLS 
whole. 

This  incoherent  temple,  in  which  the  pagan  might 
find  again  an  Altar  to  Neptune  with  its  dolphins,  its  tri- 
dents, its  marine  shells  serving  as  a  holy-water  basin,  or 
in  which  the  Mahometan,  upon  observing  the  inscrip- 
tions surrounding  the  walls  of  the  vaults,  like  the  Souras 
of  the  Koran,  might  believe  himself  in  his  mosque ;  in 

[      97     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

which  the  Christian  Greek  ■would  encounter  his  Panagia 
crowned  as  an  empress  of  Constantinople,  his  barbarous 
Christ  with  the  intertwined  monogram,  the  special  saints 
of  his  calendar  outlined  after  the  manner  of  Panselinos 
and  of  the  monk-painters  of  the  Holy  j\Iomitain,  and  in 
which  the  Catholic  also  feels  living  and  palpitating  in  the 
shadow  of  the  waves  illumined  by  the  tawny  reflection 
of  the  mosaics  of  old,  the  absolute  faith  of  the  earliest 
days,  the  submission  to  dogma  and  to  hierarchic  forms, 
the  mysterious  and  profomid  Christianity  of  the  ages  of 
faith ;  this  temple,  we  say,  built  of  pieces  and  bits  which 
contradict  themselves,  enchants  and  delights  the  eye 
more  than  though  its  architecture  had  been  of  the  most 
correct  and  symmetrical  character.  Unity  is  the  result 
of  multiplicity.  Trefoils,  ogives,  columns,  cupolas, 
marble  placques,  backgrounds  of  gold,  and  vivid  colors  of 
the  mosaics, —  all  these  are  arranged  with  a  rare  good 
fortune  and  form  a  most  magnificent  monumental  bou- 
quet. 

The  fa9ade  facing  the  Place  has  five  porticoes  giving 
upon  the  Church,  and  two  conducting  under  the  exterior 
side  galleries ;  in  all,  seven  openings,  of  which  three  are 
on  each  side  of  the  great  central  portico.  The  principal 
door  is  distinguished  by  two  groups  of  four  columns  of 
porphyry  and  antique  green  as  far  as  the  first  story,  and 
of  six  as  far  as  the  second,  which  support  the  springing 
of  the  full  centre. 

The  other  porticoes  have  only  two  columns  for  both 
stories.  We  are  speaking  now  only  of  the  facade  itself,  for 
the  mass  of  the  porticoes  is  decorated  with  other  small 
columns  in  Cipolin  marble,  jasper,  and  other  precious 
materials. 

We  propose  to  examine  with  some  detail  the  mosaics 
and  the  ornamentation  of  this  marvelous  doorway.  Com- 
mencing with  the  first  arcade  on  the  side  toward  the  sea, 
we  notice  above  a  square  door  fastened  by  a  bar,  a  By- 

[     9«     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

zantine  veneering  of  black  and  gold  in  the  form  of  a 
shrine,  with  two  angels  jomed  to  the  ribs  of  the  pointed 
ai'ch.  Higher  up  in  the  tympan  of  the  full  centre,  is 
presented  a  large  mosaic  on  a  ground  of  gold,  represent- 
ing the  body  of  Saint  ^Nlark  removed  from  the  crypts 
of  Alexandria,  and  passed  by  a  trick  through  the  Turk- 
ish customhouse,  between  two  sides  of  pork,  an  unclean 
food  of  which  the  Mussulmans  have  a  horror,  and  con- 
tact with  which  would  force  them  to  numberless  ablu- 
tions. The  infidels  turned  away  with  gestures  of  disgust, 
and  stupidly  permitted  the  body  of  the  holy  apostle  to 
be  carried  off.  This  mosaic  was  executed  from  drawings 
by  Pietro  Vecchia,  about  1650.  In  the  springing  of  the 
archivolt,  on  the  right,  is  fitted  an  antique  bas-relief  of 
Hercules  carrying  on  his  shoulders  the  hind  of  Erymau- 
thus  and  trampling  under  his  feet  the  hydi'a  of  Lerne, 
and  in  the  springing  of  the  left  (from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  spectator),  by  one  of  those  contrasts  so  frequent 
in  Saint  Mark's,  the  Angel  Gabriel  is  seen  standing  erect, 
winged  and  booted,  with  a  nimbus  romid  his  head,  lean- 
ing upon  his  lance ;  a  singular  pendant  to  the  son  of 
Alcmene  and  Jupiter. 

In  the  second  arcade  a  door  is  hewn  which  is  not  sym- 
metrical with  the  other.  This  door  is  surmovmted  by  a 
window  with  three  lancets,  on  which  are  inscribed  two 
quadrilobal  trefoils,  and  is  encompassed  by  a  border  of 
gems.  The  mosaic  of  the  tympan,  also  upon  a  gold 
ground  like  all  those  of  Saint  Mark's,  has  for  its  subject 
the  arrival  of  the  body  of  the  apostle  at  Venice,  where 
it  is  received  on  its  removal  from  the  ship  by  the  clergy 
and  principal  men  of  the  city.  The  ship  which  trans- 
ported the  body  may  be  seen,  and  the  wicker  baskets  in 
which  it  was  enclosed ;  this  mosaic  also  is  the  work  of 
Pietro  Vecchia. 

A  Saint  Demetrius,  seated,  with  sword  half-drawn 
from  its  sheath,  his  name  carved  near  the  head,  con- 

[      99      3 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

tinues  the  row  of  bas-reliefs  chased  upon  the  facade  of 
the  Basilica  as  on  the  wall  of  a  museum. 

We  iiow  come  to  the  central  door  of  the  great  portico. 
It  is,  as  it  ought  to  be,  more  ornate  than  the  others  ;  in 
addition  to  the  mass  of  columns  of  antique  marble  which 
strengthen  it  and  give  it  importance,  three  cordons,  two 
exterior  and  the  other  interior,  very  strongly  outline  its 
arch  by  their  protuberance.  These  three  rows  of  sculp- 
tured ornamentation,  excavated  and  cut  with  marvelous 
patience,  are  composed  of  a  tufted  spiral  of  foliage, 
boughs,  flowers,  fruits,  birds,  angels,  saints,  figurines  and 
chimeras  of  all  kinds ;  in  the  last,  the  arabesques  proceed 
from  the  hands  of  two  statues  seated  at  each  end  of  the 
cordon. 

A  Last  Judgment  of  large  dimensions  occupies  the  top 
of  the  arch.  It  is  the  composition  of  Antonio  Zanchi 
and  the  translation  into  mosaic  is  by  Pietro  Spagna. 
The  work  dates  from  about  1680  and  was  restored  in 
1838.  The  Christ,  which  reminds  one  a  little  of  that  of 
Michael  Angelo  in  the  Sistine,  is  separating  the  good 
from  the  wicked.  He  has  near  Him  His  mother  and 
His  beloved  Apostle  Saint  John,  who  appear  to  intercede 
for  the  sinners,  and  leans  on  His  cross,  which  an  angel 
is  holding  with  an  expression  of  respectful  solicitude. 
Other  angels  are  blowing  trumpets  to  awaken  the  obsti- 
nate sleepers  from  their  tombs. 

It  is  above  this  portico,  on  the  gallery  formed  by  the 
tower  of  the  church,  that  are  situated,  with  antique  pil- 
lars for  pedestals,  the  celebrated  horses  which  for  a 
moment  adorned  the  triumphal  arch  of  the  Carrousel. 
Opinions  are  very  much  divided  as  to  their  origin :  some 
believe  them  to  be  a  Roman  work  of  the  time  of  Nero 
transported  to  Constantinople  in  the  fourth  century ; 
others  consider  them  a  Greek  work  of  the  Island  of 
Chios,  brought  by  the  order  of  Theodosius  in  the  fifth 
century  to  the  same  city,  where  they  adorned  the  hip- 

[     100     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

podrome  ;  and  others  again  aflfirm  that  these  horses  are 
from  the  hand  of  Lysippus.  That  which  is  certain,  how- 
ever, is  that  they  are  ancient,  and  that  in  the  year  1205, 
Marino  Zeno,  who  was  Podestat  at  Constantinople  for 
the  Venetians,  had  them  removed  from  the  hippodrome 
and  gave  them  to  Venice.  These  horses,  of  natural  size, 
somewhat  thickset  in  their  necks  and  shoulders,  with 
manes  on  the  right  side  cut  like  those  of  the  horses  of 
the  Parthenon,  may  be  classed  among  the  most  beautiful 
remains  of  antiquity.  They  are  historical  and  genuine  — 
a  rare  quality;  their  movement  shows  that  they  were  har- 
nessed to  some  triumphal  chariot.  Their  material  is  not 
less  precious  than  their  form.  They  are,  it  is  said,  a 
bronze  of  Corinth,  on  which  the  greenish  rust  may  be 
seen  through  a  veneer  of  gilding  which  time  has  caused 
to  scale  off. 

The  fourth  portico  offers  in  its  inferior  part  the  same 
distribution  as  the  second.  The  tympan  of  the  arcade  is 
occupied  by  a  mosaic  representing  the  Doge,  the  Senators, 
the  patricians  of  Venice  coming  to  honor  the  body  of 
Saint  Mark  extended  on  a  shrine  and  covered  with  a 
brilliant  blue  drapery  ;  in  the  corner  is  hidden  a  group  of 
Turks  put  to  confusion  through  being  robbed  of  so  great 
a  treasure. 

This  mosaic,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  in  tone,  was 
done  by  Leopoldo  del  Pozzo,  from  a  design  of  Sebastian 
Rizzi,  in  1728.  It  is  very  beautifuh  The  Senator  in  a 
pm-ple  robe  has  an  air  which  is  altogether  Titianesque. 
In  the  springing  of  the  archivolt  which  is  nearest  to  the 
great  doorway  can  be  seen  a  Saint  George  in  Greco- 
Byzantine  style ;  in  the  other,  an  angel  or  unknown  saint. 

The  fifth  portico  is  one  of  the  most  curious  of  all. 
Five  small  windows,  with  lattices  of  gold,  fill  the  lower 
part  of  it.  Above,  the  four  evangelic  beasts  in  gilded 
bronze, —  the  ox,  lion,  eagle,  angel, —  fantastic  in  form 
as  Japanese  chimeras,  throw  squinting  glances,  while  a 

[     101     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

strange  cavalier,  on  a  mount  wliicli  might  either  be  Pega- 
sus or  the  pale  horse  of  the  Apocalypse,  paws  the  ground 
between  two  rose-windows  of  gold.  The  capitals  of  the 
columns  are  also  of  a  more  savage  taste,  more  archaic  and 
more  tufted  than  are  anywhere  else  to  be  found. 

Still  higher  a  mosaic,  the  work  of  an  unknown  artist 
of  the  twelfth  century,  contains  a  picture  of  great  inter- 
est, a  view  of  the  Basilica  as  it  was  eight  centuries  ago, 
erected  to  receive  the  relics  of  Saint  Mark. 

The  domes,  of  which  the  perspective  shows  only  three, 
and  the  porticoes  of  the  faijade  had  almost  the  same 
form  as  they  have  to-day ;  the  horses,  recently  arrived 
from  Constantinople,  are  already  in  place  ;  the  arcade  in 
the  middle  is  occupied  by  a  large  Byzantine  Christ  with 
His  Greek  monogram,  and  the  others  are  filled  with  rose- 
windows,  flowers  and  arabesques.  The  body  of  the 
Saint,  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  prelates  and  bishops, 
enters  the  church  which  is  consecrated  to  him.  A  crowd 
of  personages,  of  groups  of  women,  clothed  as  one  fancies 
the  Greek  empresses,  in  long  robes  starred  with  gems, 
press  forward  to  view  the  ceremony. 

The  row  of  unequal  bas-reliefs,  the  subjects  of  which 
we  have  mentioned,  end  on  this  side  vrith  a  Hercules  at- 
tacked by  the  wild  boar  of  Calydon,  and  who  seems  to 
menace  a  grotesque  little  being  half-buried  in  a  cask. 
Under  this  bas-relief  are  stretched  out  two  lions  rampant, 
and,  a  little  lower,  an  antique  figure  in  alto  relievo  bears 
upon  his  shoulder  an  inverted  amphora.  This  theme, 
afforded  doubtless  by  chance,  has  been  happily  repeated 
in  the  remainder  of  the  edifice. 

This  row  of  porticoes  which  forms  the  first  story  of 
the  faQade  is  bordered  by  a  balustrade  of  white  marble ; 
the  second  contains  five  arcades,  of  which  the  middle  one, 
larger  than  the  others,  looms  up  behind  the  horses  of 
Lysippus,  and  in  place  of  mosaic,  is  glazed  with  round 
panes  and  adorned  with  four  antique  pillars. 

[     10^     ] 


JOURNEYS      INITALY 

Six  bell-turrets,  composed  of  four  columns  forming  a 
niche  for  a  statue  of  the  evangelist  and  a  pinnacle  en- 
compassed by  a  gilded  crown  and  surmounted  by  a 
weather  vane,  separate  these  arches,  the  tympan  of 
which  is  in  full  centre  and  the  ribs  of  which  taper  off  in 
lancet  points.  The  four  subjects  of  the  mosaics  repre- 
sent the  Ascension,  the  Resurrection,  Jesus  making 
Adam  and  Eve  and  the  patriarchs  come  forth  from  Limbo, 
and  the  Descent  from  the  Cross  by  Luigi  Gaetano,  ac- 
cording to  designs  of  Maffeo  Verona,  in  1617.  In  the 
springing  of  the  arcades  are  placed  some  figures  of  naked 
slaves,  of  life  size,  bearing  on  their  shoulders  urns  and 
amphorce,  inclined  as  though  they  wished  to  pour  from 
above  into  a  basin  water  taken  from  some  fountain ;  to 
these  hollow  amphorse  spouts  are  adjusted,  and  the  slaves 
are  the  gargoyles.  They  are  of  a  great  variety  of  poses 
and  a  superb  tournure. 

In  the  lancet  point  of  the  great  window  in  the  middle, 
on  a  dark-blue  ground  sown  with  stars,  stands  forth  the 
lion  of  Samt  ]Mark,  gilded,  with  a  nimbus,  wings  out- 
stretched, claw  on  an  open  Gospel  on  which  are  inscribed 
these  words  :  '■'■Pax  tihi,  Marce,  evangelista  mens ; '''' \ie 
has  an  apocalyptic  and  formidable  air,  and  watches  the 
sea  like  a  vigilant  dragon.  Above  this  symbolic  repre- 
sentation of  the  evangelist,  Saint  Mark,  this  time  in  hu- 
man form,  stands  erect  at  the  end  of  the  gable,  and 
seems  to  receive  the  homage  of  the  neighboring  statues. 
On  each  gable  rises  a  statue, —  Saint  John,  Saint  George, 
Saint  Michael,  Saint  Theodore,  — decorated  with  a  nim- 
bus in  the  form  of  a  hat. 

At  each  extremity  of  the  balustrade  are  two  poles 
painted  red,  on  which  the  standards  were  raised  on  Sun- 
days and  feast  days.  At  the  end  of  the  handrail  on  the 
side  of  the  Campanile  is  fixed  a  carved  head  of  red 
porphyry. 

The  side  fa9ade,  which  looks  on  the  Piazetta  and 
[      103      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

touches  the  Ducal  Palace,  merits  examination.  If  in 
spite  of  all  pains  and  exactitude  possible,  our  description 
seems  a  trifle  confused,  do  not  ask  too  much ;  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  depict  with  much  order  a  hybrid  edifice  as  com- 
posite and  unequal  as  Saint  jNIark's. 

In  going  out  of  Bartholomew's  door,  which  leads  to 
the  Stairway  of  the  Giants,  in  the  court  of  the  Doges' 
Palace,  the  Basilica  shows  you  a  flank  bedizened  with 
marble  placques,  and  antique,  Byzantine,  and  Middle  Age 
bas-reliefs,  with  birds,  chimeras,  and  animals  of  all  kinds  ; 
lions,  ferocious  beasts  pursuing  hares,  and  infants  half- 
swallowed  by  wild  beasts,  holding  in  their  hands  a  paper 
the  inscription  on  which  is  almost  effaced. 

Among  the  curiosities  of  this  corner  are  two  figures 
of  porphyry  repeated  twice  in  a  precisely  similar  fashion. 
They  represent  warriors  having  almost  the  costumes  of 
Crusaders  entering  Constantinople  and  are  sculptured 
in  a  manner  altogether  primitive  and  barbaric,  like  the 
more  naive  Gothic  bas-reliefs.  These  men  of  porphyry, 
with  hand  on  hilt  of  sword,  have  the  air  of  banding  to- 
gether for  a  desperate  venture.  Someone  has  claimed 
that  they  represent  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton  pre- 
paring to  strike  the  tyrant  Hipparchus.  That  is  the 
common  opinion. 

The  savant  Chevalier  Mustoxidi  recognized  them  as 
the  four  brothers  Anemuria,  who  had  conspired  against 
Alexis  Comanus,  Emperor  of  the  East.  They  could 
just  as  well  be  the  four  sons  of  Aymon.  We  are  not  of 
this  opinion.  According  to  others,  these  four  good  fel- 
lows of  porphyry  were  two  couples  of  Saracen  robbers 
who,  having  conceived  the  project  of  carrying  off  the 
treasure  of  Saint  Mark,  reciprocally  poisoned  each  other 
for  having  too  large  a  share  in  the  enterprise. 

It  is  on  this  side  that  two  big  pillars  taken  from  the 
church  of  Saint  Saba,  at  Saint  John  of  Acre,  are  placed, 
all  covered  with  fantastic  ornamentations  and  inscrip- 

[     104     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

tions  in  Cufic  characters  quite  defaced,  and  the  mystery 
of  wliich  has  not  yet  been  penetrated. 

A  little  further  off,  at  the  corner  of  the  Basilica,  there 
is  a  big  block  of  porphyry  in  the  form  of  the  trunk  of  a 
column,  with  a  pedestal  and  capital  of  white  marble,  a 
sort  of  pillory  in  which  in  other  days  bankrupts  were  ex- 
posed. This  custom  has  fallen  into  desuetude,  but 
nevertheless  it  is  seldom  that  anyone  sits  there,  and  the 
Venetians,  so  ready  usually  to  estabHsh  themselves  on 
the  first  pedestal  or  stairway  they  come  to,  seem  to 
avoid  it. 

A  bronze  door  leading  to  the  baptistery  occupies  the 
base  of  the  first  arch  ;  it  has  for  an  impost  a  lancet  and 
trefoils  in  four  leaves ;  two  shields  with  gems  of  vivid 
colors,  one  of  which  is  burdened  with  a  cross,  complete 
the  decoration  of  this  tympan.  A  mosaic  of  Saint  Vitus 
in  a  niche,  and  an  evangelist  holding  a  book  and  pen, 
are  delineated  at  the  two  lower  ends  of  the  arch. 

A  little  pediment  in  the  style  of  the  Renaissance  and 
some  white  marble  placques  intersected  by  a  green 
cross,  fill  the  space  of  the  second  portico.  A  bench  in 
red  brocatelle  of  Verona,  offers  a  convenient  seat  for  the 
lazy  or  the  dreamers  who,  with  feet  in  the  sun,  and  head  in 
the  shade,  according  to  the  method  of  Zafari,  think  of 
nothing  or  think  of  everything,  while  they  watch  at  the 
foot  of  the  Campanile,  the  little  cell  of  Sansovino,  or  the 
blue  sea  and  the  Isle  of  Saint  George,  at  the  end  of  the 
Piazetta. 

On  the  verd  antique  capitals  which  support  this  arch 
squat  two  monsters  of  the  Apocalypse,  extravagant 
forms  beheld  by  Saint  John  in  the  hallucinations  of  the 
Isle  of  Patmos ;  the  one  which  has  a  hooked  beak  like 
an  eagle  holds  a  little  heifer  with  its  limbs  bent  under  it ; 
the  other,  which  partakes  of  the  lion  and  the  griffin, 
buries  its  claws  in  the  body  of  a  child,  placed  crosswise ; 
one  of  the  talons  seems  to  put  out  the  eye  of  the  victim. 
[     105     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

The  angle  is  formed  by  a  detaclied  and  stocky  column 
which  bears  a  sheaf  of  five  small  columns  upon  its 
broad  capital.  At  the  arch  of  this  doorway  and  covered 
by  a  patchwork  of  varied  marbles,  is  an  eagle  in  mosaic, 
holding  a  book  between  its  claws. 

The  second  story  shows  us  on  the  gable  of  the  arcades 
two  statues  of  cardinal  virtues  of  a  beautiful  tournure  : 
Force  caressing  a  pet  lion  which  stands  up  like  a  play- 
ful dog,  and  Faithfulness  holding  a  sword  with  the  air  of 
a  Bradamante.  The  sacristan  baptizes  one  with  the 
name  of  Venice  ;  the  other,  the  Queen  of  Sheba. 

Incrustations  of  malachite  ;  varied  gems  ;  a  great  bar- 
baric Madonna  presenting  her  son  to  the  adoration  of 
the  faithful,  and  flanked  by  two  lamps  which  are  lighted 
every  evening ;  a  bas-relief  of  peacocks  displaying  their 
tails,  which  possibly  came  from  an  old  temple  of  Juno ; 
a  Saint  Christopher  bearing  his  burden  ;  capitals  plaited 
in  corbels  and  of  most  charming  caprice ;  —  these  are 
the  riches  which  this  angle  of  the  Basilica  presents  to  the 
visitors  of  the  Piazetta. 

The  other  lateral  face  looks  on  a  little  Place,  the  pro- 
longation of  the  Piazza.  At  the  entrance  to  this  Place 
lie  two  lions  of  red  marble ;  cousins-german  to  those  of 
the  Alhambra  in  the  ignorant  fantasy  of  their  forms  and 
the  grotesque  ferocity  of  their  muzzles  and  their  manes. 
They  have  acquired  a  prodigious  polish,  for  since  time  im- 
memorial the  little  gamins  of  the  city  are  accustomed 
to  pass  their  days  in  climbing  up  on  them,  and  using 
them  as  flying  horses.  At  the  base  rises  the  Palace  of 
the  Patriarch  of  Venice,  of  recent  construction,  quite 
disagreeable  to  view  if  it  did  not  disappear  in  the  shadow 
of  Saint  ]\hirk  ;  and,  on  the  flank,  the  ancient  facade  of 
the  church  of  Saint  Basso. 

This  side  is  a  little  less  burdened  than  the  other ;  it  is 
covered  with  mosaics  and  gems,  with  seals,  arabesques  of 
all  ages  and  of  all  countries,  birds,  eagles  of  fantastic 

C    io«    ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

shapes,  such  as  spread  eagles  and  martlets  of  heraldry. 
The  lion  of  Saint  Mark's  also  plays  his  role  in  this  sym- 
bolic menagerie.  The  vacant  spaces  of  the  porticos  are 
filled  either  by  little  windows  surrounded  by  palms  and 
arabesques  or  by  incrustations  of  Byzantine  or  antique 
fragments.  In  these  medallions  are  sculptured  men  and 
animals  fighting.  Looking  closely,  the  Mithridatic  bull, 
struck  in  the  neck  by  the  sacrificer,  may  possibly  be  dis- 
covered, for  no  religion  is  wanting  to  this  naively  Pan- 
theistic temple.  And  undoubtedly  here  is  Ceres,  who 
seeks  her  daughter,  a  pine  tree  in  each  hand  for  a  torch, 
and  mounted  on  a  car  to  which  two  prancing  dragons  are 
harnessed.  It  might  be  a  Hindoo  idol,  so  archaic  is  its 
style,  and  it  recalls  the  Persepolitan  scidptures.  It  is  a 
strange  pendant  for  a  sacrifice  of  Abraham  in  bas-relief, 
which  carries  us  back  to  primitive  times  of  Christian  art. 

Another  bas-relief,  composed  of  two  rows  of  sheep,  six 
on  each  side,  looking  toward  a  thi'one  and  separated  by 
two  palm  branches,  very  much  interested  us,  for  we  wished 
to  know  what  it  signifies,  and  we  made  vain  efforts  to 
decipher  the  inscription  in  Gotliic  or  abbreviated  Greek 
letters  which  indicates,  doubtless,  its  subject.  These 
sheep  are  possibly  cows,  and  then  the  bas-relief  would 
have  for  its  subject  Pharaoh's  Dream.  An  antique  frag- 
ment, fitted  into  the  wall  a  little  further  along,  depicts 
one  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  Eleusis  placing  a  crown 
on  the  mystic  palm,  which  does  not  prevent  Saint  George 
in  the  archivolt  from  strutting  on  his  throne  in  Grecian 
style,  and  the  four  evangelists.  Saint  Mark,  Saint  John, 
Saint  Luke,  and  Saint  Matthew,  from  continuing  their 
march  on  the  tympans,  the  gables,  and  the  arches,  alone 
or  accompanied  by  their  symbolic  animals. 

The  portico,  Avhich  opens  upon  the  arm  of  the  cross 
formed  by  the  Basilica,  is  surromided  by  a  thick,  exca- 
vated, chiseled  fillet,  a  charming  efflorescence  of  foliage, 
leaves,  and  angels.     A  delightful  Virgin  serves  as  a  key 

[     1''7     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

for  the  arch.  Above  the  door  is  a  distorted,  heart-shaped 
ogive,  hollowed  out  at  the  base  like  those  of  the  Mosque 
of  Cordova,  an  Arab  fantasy,  corrected  in  good  season  by 
a  beautiful  Nativity,  which  is  wholly  Christian,  and  of  a 
very  impressive  sentiment.  Beyond  these  we  have  only 
to  mention  a  Saint  Christopher,  some  apostles  and  saints 
in  frames  of  white  and  red  tesselated  marble,  and  a  charm- 
ing face  of  Our  Lady,  with  the  hands  outstretched  as  in 
benediction,  between  two  kneeling  angels  who  adore  her. 
We  have  spoken  in  our  description  of  a  head  of  porphyry 
enchased  on  the  balustrade,  above  the  fragment  of  column 
where  the  bankrupts  were  compelled  to  sit.  According 
to  a  popular  legend,  the  truth  of  which  we  in  no  wise 
guarantee,  Count  Carmagnola,  after  great  services  ren- 
dered the  Republic,  having  wished  to  become  possessed 
of  power,  the  Council  of  Ten,  in  order  to  reconcile  jus- 
tice and  gratitude,  had  him  decapitated  and  then  raised 
a  monument  to  him,  which  consists  of  this  head  of  por- 
phyry on  this  pedestal, — a  strange  statue,  the  body  of 
which  is  wanting,  while  the  head  on  this  balustrade  seems 
exposed  as  that  of  a  chief  of  malefactors  in  a  cage.  But 
the  pillory  is  Saint  Mark's,  the  place  sacred,  the  Capitol 
and  Palladium  of  Venice.  When  it  was  necessary  to  put 
heroes  to  the  torture  in  order  to  obtain  the  requisite  con- 
fessions, according  to  the  ideas  of  the  time,  for  their  con- 
demnation, the  arms  which  had  combated  valiantly  for 
the  State  were  respected  and  fire  was  applied  to  the  feet, 
a  mixture  of  deference  and  cruelty  which  accords  very 
well  with  the  legend. 


[     1^8     J 


VENICE 

Interior  of  St.  Mark's 


CHAPTER   IX 
SAINT    MARK'S— Co7icluded 


ALL  promenaders  of  the  Mole  and  the  Piazetta  must 
have  noticed  the  two  small  lights  which  are  always 
burning  on  the  side  of  Saint  Mark's  in  front  of  the 
Madonna  delineated  in  mosaic  work  on  the  face  of  the 
Cathedral,  on  a  level  with  the  balustrade.  There  are 
two  different  legends  concerning  these  lights.  We  will 
narrate  without  comment  both  versions,  their  authen- 
ticity being  undoubted  by  both  the  sacristans  and  the 
gondoliers. 

In  the  days  of  the  Republic,  a  man  was  assassinated  on 
the  Piazetta.  The  murderer,  frightened  by  some  noise, 
dropped  the  sheath  of  the  stiletto  as  he  started  to  run 
away.  A  baker  who  was  passing  by  on  his  way  home 
saw  the  glistening  sheath  adorned  with  silver,  and  stooped 
down  to  pick  it  up,  not  seeing  the  body  on  account  of 
the  darkness. 

The  sbirri,  discovering  a  man  close  by  the  body  of  the 
victim,  arrested  him  and,  having  searched  him,  found 
on  his  person  a  case  which  fitted  perfectly  the  poignard 
drawn  from  the  wound.  The  poor  baker,  in  spite  of  his 
protestations  of  innocence,  was  imprisoned,  tried,  con- 
demned, and  executed.  Some  years  after,  a  notorious 
bandit,  convicted  of  many  crimes  and  about  to  ascend 
the  scaffold,  tormented  by  remorse,  confessed  that  the 
unhappy  man  who  had  been  put  to  death  for  murder  was 
innocent  and  that  he  alone  was  guilty  of  the  deed. 

Thereupon,   the  reputation    of   the   poor  baker  was 
solemnly  rehabihtated;  the  judges  who  had  condemned 
him  were  executed,  and  their  property  confiscated  to  pro- 
vide sums  for  an  annual  mass  for  the  reppse  of  the  baker's 
[      109      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

soul,  and  for  the  maintenance  of  these  two  perpetual 
lights.  Nor  was  this  all.  For  fear  that  these  little  trem- 
bling stars  might  not  be  a  sufficient  reminder  for  the  con- 
sciences of  the  judges,  it  was  decreed  that  at  the  close  of 
everj^  criminal  trial,  when  sentence  has  been  pronounced 
and  the  executioner  is  about  to  seize  his  prey,  a  bailiff, 
advancing  to  the  foot  of  the  tribunal,  shall  say  to  the 
judges,  *'  Remember  the  baker."  Then  sentence  is  sus- 
pended and  the  case  retried.  The  utterance  of  the  bailiff 
entitles  the  accused  to  an  appeal  and  a  new  trial. 

Here  is  the  other  version :  A  grand  seigneur  of  the 
Republic  was  one  day  seized  with  a  lugubrious  impulse 
to  descend  into  the  vault  where  his  ancestors  were  buried 
and  caused  their  coffins  to  be  opened.  Upon  doing  this, 
he  made  an  astounding  discovery :  the  bodies,  instead  of 
having  preserved  the  rigid  immobiUty  of  the  corpse,  were 
twisted  in  attitudes  betokening  their  desperate  struggles. 
Their  agonies  had  evidently  begun  again  after  their 
burials.  He  realized  that  they  had  undoubtedly  been 
buried  alive  while  in  a  cataleptic  state,  and  he  gave  orders 
that  his  own  body  should  not  be  lowered  mto  the  grave, 
when  his  time  came  to  die,  until  it  had  been  preserved  as 
long  as  possible,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  revived  at 
the  moment  when  his  body  was  about  to  be  put  aboard 
the  red  gondola  which  was  to  bear  him  to  his  final  rest- 
ing-place. To  show  his  thankfulness  for  having  escaped 
this  peril,  he  made  a  vow  to  keep  these  two  lights  per- 
petually burning  before  this  shrine  of  the  Madonna,  for 
which  he  evinced  a  special  devotion. 

If  one  of  these  versions  is  true,  it  follows  that  the  other 
must  be  false ;  but  we  must  not  cavil  about  legends,  and 
both  are  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Venice.  The  one 
thing  about  the  whole  matter  that  is  certainly  true  is  the 
fact  that  the  two  lights  shine  out  ever}'-  night  in  com- 
pany with  the  stars,  and  that  apjjroaching  from  the  sea 
their  gleam  can  be  discerned  at  the  end  of  the  Piazetta 

[     110     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

like  a  pious  thouglit  which  the  noise  of  the  city  cannot 
distract. 

Before  entering  the  church,  let  us  glance  at  the  five 
cupolas  which  look  like  silver  helmets  and  terminate  in 
little  domes  ribbed  like  a  melon,  surmounted  by  the  cross 
of  Saint  Andrew  with  three  golden  balls  on  each  of  its 
points. 

Apropos  of  gold,  it  was  practically  decided  at  one  time, 
in  the  wealthy  days  of  the  Republic,  to  gild  the  whole 
of  the  domes  and  bell-turrets ;  the  matter  was  so  def- 
initely agreed  upon  that  Gentile  Bellini,  having  occa- 
sion to  paint  a  view  of  Saint  Mark's  in  a  picture  rep- 
resenting a  procession  passing  along  the  Place,  gilded 
his  bell-turrets  in  the  behef  that  in  the  future  his  pic- 
ture thus  painted  would  be  correct ;  but  Leonardo  Lore- 
dano,  being  pressed  for  money  to  prosecute  a  war  in 
which  he  was  engaged,  took  the  sequins  destined  for 
Saint  Mark's  and  used  them  to  destroy  the  enemies  of 
Venice,  and  so  it  happened  that  the  gilding  of  Saint 
Mark's  existed  only  in  the  picture. 

The  Basilica  of  Saint  Mark,  like  an  ancient  temple, 
is  preceded  by  an  atrium  which  anywhere  else  would  be 
a  church  in  itself,  and  which  deserves  special  attention. 
Look  just  when  you  are  inside  the  church,  at  that  great 
block  of  red  marble  wliich  stands  out  from  the  intricate 
designs  of  the  pavement ;  it  marks  the  spot  where  the 
Emperor  Frederick  Barbarossa  knelt  before  the  Ambassa- 
dor of  Pope  Alexander  Til,  saying,  "  Non  tihi,  sed  Petro''' 
and  to  whom  the  Ambassador  haughtily  replied,  ^'- Et 
Petro,  et  mihV^ 

What  myriads  of  feet  since  the  twenty-third  of  July, 
1177,  have  combined  to  efface  the  impression  made  in  the 
dust  by  the  knees  of  the  great  Emperor  who  sleeps  to-day 
at  the  bottom  of  the  cavern  of  Kaiserslautern  awaiting 
the  time  when  the  ravens  shall  fly  no  more  upon  the 
mountain ! 

[    111     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

The  three  bronze  doors  incrusted  and  inlaid  with  silver, 
covered  with  little  figiu'es,  and  which  uslier  you  into  the 
nave,  are  said  to  have  come  from  Saint  Sophia's  at  Con- 
stantinople ;  one  of  them  is  signed  by  Leon  de  Molino. 

At  the  end  of  the  vestibule,  on  the  right,  the  Chapel 
of  Zeno,  with  its  retable  and  bronze  tomb,  may  be  dis- 
cerned through  a  grating.  The  statue  representing  the 
Virgin  between  Saint  John  the  Baptist  and  Saint  Peter 
is  called  la  Madonna  della  Scaiya,  the  Madonna  of  the 
Shoe,  on  account  of  the  golden  shoe  upon  her  foot,  worn 
away  by  the  kisses  of  the  faithful ;  all  this  ornamenta- 
tion of  metal  has  an  odd  and  severe  aspect. 

The  arch  of  the  atrium  rounded  off  with  cupolas  pre- 
sents the  story  of  the  Old  Testament  in  mosaic.  The 
first  representation  —  as  all  religious  history  begins  with 
a  cosmogony  —  is  that  of  the  seven  days  of  Creation  ac- 
cording to  the  narrative  of  Genesis,  the  days  being 
apportioned  among  concentric  compartments.  The  ar- 
chaic barbarity  of  style  has  something  of  the  mysterious, 
weird,  and  primitive  about  it  which  is  appropriate  to  the 
sacred  character  of  the  representations.  The  design,  in 
its  rigidity,  typifies  the  idea  of  the  Absolute  of  Dogma 
and  resembles  the  hieroglyphics  of  a  mystery  much  more 
than  the  reproduction  of  nature.  This  it  is  which  gives 
to  these  big  Gothic  images  a  strength  which  more  per- 
fect works  do  not  possess.  These  blue  starry  globes ; 
these  discs  of  gold  and  silver  which  represent  the  firma- 
ment, the  sun  and  the  moon ;  those  disordered  lights 
which  denote  the  separation  of  the  waters  and  the  earth  ; 
that  singular  personage  of  impossible  gestures,  whose 
right  hand  brings  forth  trees  and  animals  of  fantastic 
forms  and  who  bends  like  a  mesmerist  over  the  first 
man  put  to  sleep  in  order  that  the  woman  may  be  drawn 
forth  from  his  side,  —  this  mingling  of  angular  features 
and  startling  hues  enchains  the  vision  and  the  spirit  like 
an  inextricable   arabesque  and  a  profound  symbolism. 

[     11-'     ] 


VENICE 

St.  Mark's  —  a  detail  in  the  interior 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Verses  of  Scripture,  complicated  by  abbreviations  and 
ligatures,  add  to  tlie  hieroglyphic  and  Genesiac  aspect  of 
the  whole  ;  it  is  indeed  a  world  which  is  being  brought  out 
of  chaos.  The  Tree  of  the  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil, 
the  Temptation,  the  Fall,  the  Expulsion  from  the  earthly 
paradise,  complete  this  cosmogonic  and  primitive  cycle, 
the  quasi-divine  period  of  humanity. 

Further  along,  Cain  slays  Abel  after  having  seen  his 
sacrifice  rejected  by  the  Almighty.  Adam  and  Eve  till 
the  ground  in  the  sweat  of  their  brows.  The  four  col- 
umns placed  against  the  wall  underneath  the  mosaics,  — 
which  are  purely  ornamental,  for  they  do  not  support 
anything,  —  are  of  black  and  white  Oriental  marble,  of 
great  rarity,  and  were  brought  from  Jerusalem,  where, 
according  to  tradition,  they  were  taken  from  the  Temple 
of  Solomon.  The  architect  Hiram,  it  is  certain,  would 
not  have  found  them  out  of  place  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Saint  Mark. 

In  the  next  vault,  Noah,  by  the  command  of  God, 
builds  an  ark  in  preparation  for  the  Deluge,  into  which 
he  causes  to  enter,  couple  by  couple,  all  the  animals  of 
creation,  an  admirable  subject  for  an  innocent  mosaist  of 
the  thirteenth  century. 

It  is  very  interesting  to  see  this  fantastic  zoology  un- 
fold itself  upon  its  background  of  gold.  The  Flood  is 
very  formidable  and  very  lugubrious,  in  a  taste  altogether 
different  from  that  so  much  exploited  by  Poussin.  The 
lines  of  the  waves  are  strangely  mingled  with  the  slants 
of  rain,  which  look  like  the  teeth  of  combs ;  the  raven, 
the  dove,  the  going  forth  from  the  ark,  and  the  sacrifice 
of  thanksgiving  are  all  depicted  ;  nothing  is  wanting. 
This  closes  the  antediluvian  cycle.  Verses  of  the  Bible, 
which  meander  through  all,  like  the  inscriptions  of  the 
Alhambra,  and  form  part  of  the  ornamentation,  explain 
each  phase  of  this  vanished  world;  the  idea  is  always 
alongside  of  the  image. 

[     113     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

The  story,  interrupted  for  a  moment  by  the  entrance 
portico  adorned  with  some  mosaics  of  the  Virgin  with 
archangels  and  prophets,  is  continued  on  the  other  arch. 
Noah  plants  the  vine  and  becomes  intoxicated.  Japhet, 
Shem,  and  Ham,  blighted  by  the  paternal  curse,  respec- 
tively generate  a  family  of  the  human  race.  The  Tower 
of  Babel  raises  to  heaven  the  naive  anachronism  of  its 
Byzantine  architecture,  which  attracts  the  attention  of 
God,  who  becomes  uneasy  at  its  too  near  approach.  The 
confusion  of  tongues  forces  the  laborers  to  discontinue 
their  work.  The  human  race  which  thus  far  had  been 
one  and  had  spoken  the  same  language,  began  its  long 
peregrinations  through  an  miknown  world  in  order  to 
recover  its  rights  and  re-establish  itself. 

The  following  cupolas,  the  first  of  which  is  in  the 
vestibule,  and  the  others  in  the  gallery  which  looks  to- 
ward the  Place  of  the  Lions,  contain  the  story  of  the 
Patriarch  Abraham  with  all  its  details,  that  of  Joseph 
and  of  Moses,  the  whole  accompanied  by  prophets, 
priests,  evangelists,  Isaiah,  Jeremiah,  Ezekiel,  Eli, 
Samuel,  Habakkuk,  Saint  Alipius,  Saint  Simeon,  and  a 
host  of  others  who  are  grouped  or  isolated  in  the  arches, 
in  the  pendentives, —  wherever  a  figure  can  be  placed 
without  regard  to  its  ease  or  its  anatomy,  and  an  arm  or 
limb  of  which  may  perhaps  be  broken  in  order  to  orna- 
ment an  outlandish  corner. 

All  these  Biblical  legends,  full  of  naive  details  and 
curious  Oriental  adjustments,  have  a  haughty  and  savage 
character  upon  the  field  of  gold  wliich  gives  them  a 
darker  tint.  These  old  mosaics,  executed  probably  by 
Greek  artists  summoned  from  Constantinople,  are  much 
more  pleasing  than  the  more  modern  mosaics  which  aim 
at  the  picture ;  for  example,  that  which  covers  the  wall 
of  the  gallery  beneath  the  story  of  Abraham  and  which 
represents  the  Judgment  of  Solomon  executed  from  the 
designs  of  Salviati.     The  mosaic,  like  painting  on  glass, 

[     114     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

ought  not  to  strive  to  imitate  nature  ;  typical  forms  well 
caught,  free  colors,  local  tones,  gold  backgroirnds  putting 
at  a  distance  all  idea  of  the  picture,  are  what  properly 
belong  to  it.  A  mosaic  is  an  opaque  glass  window,  or  a 
glass  window  is  a  transparent  mosaic. 

At  the  end  of  this  gallery,  in  the  tympan  of  a  door, 
we  greatly  admired  a  Madonna  seated  upon  a  throne  be- 
tween Saint  John  and  Saint  Peter,  and  presenting  the 
infant  Jesus  to  the  faithful.  It  is  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful mosaics  of  Saint  Mark's.  The  head  with  its  great 
fixed  eyes,  which  penetrate  you  without  staring  at  you, 
has  something  imperial  and  imperious  in  its  meekness. 
One  might  imagine  that  the  cushion  on  which  she  reposes 
had  been  embroidered  at  Byzantium  by  Helena  or  Irene. 
The  Mother  of  God,  as  says  the  Greek  monogram,  and 
the  Queen  of  Heaven,  could  not  be  represented  in  a  more 
majestic  manner.  Certain  barbarities  of  design  give  to 
this  admirable  figure  an  aspect  like  that  of  an  idol 
(icone^,  to  make  use  of  the  term  of  the  Greek  Chris- 
tians, which  seems  to  us  to  be  indispensable  for  subjects 
of  sanctity. 

Under  this  gallery  are  tlu'ee  monuments,  one  of  which, 
remarkable  for  its  antiquity,  represents  Jesus  Christ 
and  the  Twelve  Apostles  ranged  in  file  above  a  row  of 
thurifers. 

To  make  an  end  of  the  exterior  of  Saint  Mark's,  let  us 
enter  the  chapel  of  the  baptistery,  which  is  attached  to 
the  Cathedral  by  a  door  of  communication. 

The  altar  is  made  of  a  stone  brought  from  Tyre  in 
1126,  by  the  Doge  Domenico  Michel;  according  to  tra- 
dition it  was  on  this  stone  that  Jesus  Christ  mounted 
when  he  spoke  to  the  Tyrians.  We  will  not  discuss  this 
popular  opinion.  If  it  is  doubtful  from  the  historical 
point  of  view,  is  it  not  from  a  poetical  standpoint  a  beau- 
tiful idea  to  have  made  out  of  this  piece  of  rock,  from 
which  the  Reformer,  as  yet  misunderstood,  announced  the 

[     115     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

good  news  to  the  multitude,  an  altar  in  this  temple  glis- 
tening with  gold  and  radiant  with  masterpieces?  Is  it 
not,  in  fact,  on  this  humble  stone,  made  divine  by  the  foot 
of  the  Celestial  Prophet,  that  all  the  Cathedrals  of  the 
Christian  world  are  founded? 

That  which  forms  what  the  Spaniards  call  the  retahle, 
the  Italians  la  pala,  and  the  French,  le  tableau  d^autel, 
(altar  picture),  is  a  Baptism  of  Jesus  Christ  by  Saint 
John,  between  two  angels  sculptured  in  bas-relief.  Saint 
Theodore  and  Saint  George,  on  horseback,  form  the  pen- 
dants on  each  side,  and  above,  the  mosaic  work  presents 
a  great  Crucifixion  with  the  holy  women  on  a  field  of 
gold. 

The  cupola  represents  Jesus  Christ  in  His  glory,  sur- 
rounded with  a  great  crowd  of  heads  and  wings  arranged 
in  circles.  It  shines,  palpitates,  twinkles,  flames,  and 
whirls  strangely;  archangels,  thrones,  dominions,  virtues, 
powers,  principalities,  cherubim,  seraphim,  crowd  their 
oblong  heads  together,  and  their  outspread  wings  are 
arranged  in  such  a  manner  as  to  form  an  immense  ro- 
sette of  Turkish  carpet.  At  the  feet  of  the  Almighty 
the  Devil  enchained  contorts  himself,  and  Death  van- 
quished cringes  before  the  triumphant  Christ. 

The  following  cupola,  of  very  peculiar  aspect,  shows 
us  the  Twelve  Apostles  each  baptizing  the  Gentiles  of  a 
different  country.  The  catechumens,  following  the  an- 
cient custom,  are  plunged  into  a  tank  up  to  the  armpits, 
and  the  want  of  a  perspective  gives  them  constrained  atti- 
tudes and  piteous  expressions  which  cause  them  to  re- 
semble baptisms  of  the  condemned.  The  Apostles,  with 
harsh  eyes,  hard  and  sullen  features,  have  the  air  of  exe- 
cutioners and  torturers. 

Four  Doctors  of  the  Church,  Saint  Jerome,  Saint 
Gregory,  Saint  Augustine,  and  Saint  Ambrose,  occupy 
the  pendentives.  The  black  crosses  with  which  their 
dalmatics  are  strewn  have  something  sinister  and  fune- 

[     116     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

real  about  them.  This  characteristic  is  common  to  the 
whole  chapel.  The  mosaics,  of  a  great  antiquity,  the 
oldest  in  the  church,  are  of  a  ferocious  barbarity  which 
reveals  an  implacable  and  savage  Christianity. 

In  the  arch  there  is  a  large  medallion  representing  the 
Christ  under  a  terrible  aspect:  it  is  no  longer  the  gentle, 
meek  Christ,  the  young  Nazarene  with  blue  eyes,  whom 
you  are  familiar  with,  but  a  Christ  severe  and  formidable, 
with  a  beard  which  breaks  forth  in  gray  waves  like  that 
of  God  the  Father,  whose  age  He  also  has,  since  Father 
and  Son  are  co-eternal.  The  deep  wrinkles  of  all  the 
ages  furrow  His  brow,  and  His  mouth  is  drawn,  ready  to 
launch  an  anathema ;  one  might  fancy  that  He  despaired 
of  the  salvation  of  the  world  He  had  saved,  or  that  He 
repented  of  His  sacrifice. 

Siva,  the  god  of  destruction,  in  the  subterranean  Pagoda 
of  Ellora,  could  not  have  had  a  more  menacing  or  sombre 
face.  Around  this  vengeful  Christ  are  grouped  the 
prophets  who  announced  liis  coming. 

On  the  walls  the  story  of  Saint  John  the  Baptist  is 
mifolded.  There  may  be  seen  the  angel  announcing  to 
Zacharias  the  birth  of  the  Forerunner ;  his  life  in  the 
desert,  savagely  bristling  in  a  garment  made  of  the  skins 
of  wild  beasts ;  the  baptism  of  Jesus  Christ  in  the  Jor- 
dan, a  mosaic  which  is  more  Hindu  than  Byzantine,  or 
rather  Carib  than  Hindu ;  the  dance  of  Herodias'  daugh- 
ter before  Herod;  the  decapitation  and  presentation 
of  the  head  upon  a  plate  of  silver,  a  favorite  of  Juan 
Valdes  Leal.  In  these  latter  pictures  the  daughter  of 
Herodias,  robed  in  a  long  dalmatic,  recalls  the  dissolute 
empresses  of  Constantinople,  those  great  courtesans  of 
the  Bas-Empire, — Theodora,  for  example,  —  luxurious, 
lascivious,  and  cruel.  A  singular  coincidence  marks  the 
scene  of  the  festivity :  while  Herodias'  daughter  brings 
the  severed  head,  a  carver  arrives  with  a  pheasant  on  a 
plate,  at  the  other  side  of  the  table.     This  mingling  of 

[     117     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

cooking  and  murder  produces  an  effect  that  is  horrible 
in  its  naivete. 

The  baptismal  fonts  are  of  marble  with  a  lid  of  bronze, 
the  bas-reliefs  of  which,  modeled  in  1545  by  Desiderio 
of  Florence  and  Tiziano  of  Padua,  both  pupils  of  Sanso- 
vino,  recall  the  principal  incidents  in  the  story  of  Saint 
John.  The  statue  of  the  Saint,  also  of  bronze,  is  by 
Francesco  Segala,  and  admirably  crowns  the  work.  On 
the  wall  is  fixed  the  monumental  stone  of  the  Doge  An- 
drea Dandolo. 

Now  let  us  enter  the  Basilica.  The  door  is  sur- 
mounted by  a  Saint  Mark  in  pontifical  garments,  after 
a  design  of  Titian,  by  the  brothers  Zuccati,  upon  whom 
George  Sand  based  her  charming  novel  of  the  Maitres 
Mosaistes.  This  mosaic  has  a  splendor  which  enables  us 
to  understand  why  jealous  rivals  accuse  the  skilful  artists 
of  making  use  of  painting  instead  of  confining  them- 
selves to  their  ordinary  methods.  The  interior  impost 
is  a  Christ  between  His  mother  and  Saint  John  the 
Baptist,  of  a  fine  Bas-Empire  style,  imposing  and  severe, 
let  us  say  once  for  all  in  order  not  to  be  obliged  to  turn 
our  eyes  away  from  the  admirable  spectacle  which  is 
about  to  present  itself  to  us. 

Nothing  can  compare  with  Saint  Mark's  of  Venice,  — 
neither  Cologne,  nor  Strasbourg,  nor  Seville,  nor  even 
Cordova  with  its  mosque  :  it  has  a  surprising  and  magi- 
cal effect.  The  first  impression  is  that  of  a  cavern  of 
gold  incrusted  with  precious  stones,  splendid  and  sombre, 
at  the  same  time  sparkling  and  mysterious.  Are  we  in 
a  building  or  in  an  immense  jewel-casket?  Such  is  the 
question  one  asks  oneself. 

The  cupolas,  the  arches,  the  architraves,  the  walls,  are 
covered  with  small  tubes  of  gilded  crystal,  fabricated  at 
Murano,  of  an  unalterable  splendor,  on  which  the  light 
frlistens  as  on  the  scales  of  a  fish  and  which  serve  as  a 
field  for  the  imperishable  skill  of  the  mosaists. 
[      118     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

Where  the  groundwork  of  gold  stops,  at  the  top  of  a 
column,  a  facing  of  the  most  precious  and  variegated 
marbles  begins.  From  the  vault  descends  a  great  lamp 
in  the  form  of  a  cross  with  four  branches,  of  marvelous 
effect  when  lighted,  an  effect  which  the  diorama  has 
rendered  popular  in  France. 

The  central  dome,  hollowed  out  at  the  intersection  of 
the  arms  of  the  Greek  cross  outlined  by  the  plan  of  the 
Basihca,  presents  in  its  vast  cup  Jesus  Christ  seated  on 
a  rainbow,  in  the  midst  of  a  circular  space  filled  with 
stars  and  borne  up  by  two  couples  of  seraphim.  Be- 
neath Him,  the  Divine  Mother,  standing  between  two 
angels,  adores  her  Son  in  His  glory,  and  the  Twelve 
Apostles,  each  separated  from  the  other  by  a  naively 
executed  tree,  which  symbolizes  the  Garden  of  Olives, 
form  with  their  Master  a  celestial  court ;  the  theological 
and  cardinal  virtues  are  represented  between  the  win- 
dows of  the  little  dome  which  lights  the  vault ;  the  four 
evangelists,  seated  in  cabinets  in  the  form  of  castles, 
are  writing  their  precious  books  at  the  base  of  the  pen- 
dentives,  the  lowest  point  of  which  is  occupied  by  em- 
blematic figures  engaged  in  pouring  from  an  urn  borne 
on  their  shoulders  the  four  rivers  of  Paradise,  —  the 
Tigris,  Euphrates,  Gehon,  and  Pison. 

Further  along  in  the  following  cupola,  the  centre  of 
which  is  filled  with  a  medalhon  of  the  Mother  of  God, 
the  four  familiar  beasts  of  the  evangelists,  delivered  on 
this  occasion  from  the  guardianship  of  their  masters,  de- 
vote themselves  to  the  protection  of  the  holy  manuscript 
in  fantastic  and  menacing  attitudes,  and  with  an  abun- 
dance of  teeth,  claws,  and  big  eyes. 

At  the  base  of  the  demi-cupola,  which  glitters  vaguely 
behind  the  great  altar,  the  Redeemer  is  delineated  by 
means  of  a  gigantic  and  badly  proportioned  figure,  for 
the  purpose  of  indicating,  according  to  the  Byzantine 
usage,  the  distance  of  the  Divine  Personage  from  the 

[     119     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

feeble  creature.  Like  the  Olympian  Jove,  this  Christ, 
if  He  were  to  rise,  would  carry  away  the  arch  of  His 
temple. 

The  atrium  of  the  Basilica,  as  we  have  shown,  is  filled 
with  scenes  from  the  Old  Testament ;  the  interior  con- 
tains the  entire  New  Testament,  with  the  Apocalypse  for 
epilogue.  The  Cathedral  of  Saint  Mark  is  a  great 
adorned,  illuminated  Bible  of  gold,  a  missal  of  the 
Middle  Ages  on  a  large  scale.  For  eight  centuries  a 
city  has  turned  over  the  leaves  of  this  monument  like  a 
picture-book,  without  growing  weary  in  its  pious  admir- 
ation. Alongside  the  image  is  found  the  text ;  every- 
where inscriptions,  legends  in  Greek  and  in  Latin ;  leon- 
ine verses,  Bible  verses,  sentences,  names,  monograms, 
samples  of  the  calligraphy  of  all  countries  and  all  times, 
mount,  descend,  encircle.  Everywhere  the  black  letter 
traces  its  pothooks  on  the  golden  page,  through  the  mot- 
ley of  the  mosaic  ;  it  is  even  more  the  temple  of  the 
Word  than  the  Church  of  Saint  Mark,  an  intellectual 
temple  which,  without  concerning  itself  with  any  style 
of  architecture,  builds  itself  with  verses  of  the  old  and 
of  the  new  faith,  and  finds  its  ornamentation  in  the  exposi- 
tion of  its  doctrine. 

We  will  not  attempt  a  detailed  description,  which 
would  demand  a  special  work,  but  we  would  like  to  de- 
scribe the  dazzling  and  dizzy  impression  produced  by 
this  world  of  angels,  apostles,  prophets,  doctors,  figures 
of  all  kinds  who  people  the  cupolas,  vaults,  tympans, 
Rouble-arches,  pillars,  pendentives,  the  least  available 
piece  of  wall;  there  the  genealogical  tree  of  the  Virgin 
extends  its  tufted  branches,  which  bear  kings  and  holy 
personages  for  fruits  and  fills  a  vast  panel  with  its 
strange  foliation ;  there  shines  a  Paradise  with  its  glory, 
its  legion  of  angels  and  blessed  ones.  This  chapel  contains 
the  story  of  the  Virgin  ;  that  arch  unfolds  all  the  drama 
of  the  Passion  from  the  kiss  of  Judas  to  the  apparition 
[     1-^0     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

to  the  holy  women ;  and  passing  through  the  agonies  of 
the  Garden  of  Olives  and  of  Calvary. 

All  those  who  have  borne  witness  for  Jesus,  whether 
by  prophecy  or  by  martyrdom,  are  admitted  into  this 
great  Christian  Pantheon.  There  is  Saint  Peter  cruci- 
fied with  head  downward ;  Saint  Paul  beheaded ;  Saint 
Thomas  before  the  Indian  King  Gondoforus  ;  Saint  An- 
drew suffering  his  martyrdom.  Not  one  of  the  servants 
of  Christ  is  forgotten,  not  even  Saint  Bacchus.  Some 
Greek  saints  of  whom  we  Latins  know  little,  come  to 
augment  this  sacred  multitude.  Saint  Phocas,  Saint 
Demetrius,  Saint  Procopius,  Saint  Hermagoras,  Saint 
Euphemia,  Saint  Erasma,  Saint  Dorothea,  Saint  Thekla, 
—  all  the  beautiful  exotic  flowers  of  the  Greek  calendar, 
which  one  might  beheve  to  have  been  painted  according 
to  the  recipes  of  the  manual  of  painting  of  the  monk 
d'Aghia-Lavra,  bloom  upon  these  trees  of  gold  and  of 
precious  stones. 

At  certain  hours,  when  the  shadows  thicken  and  the 
sun  launches  but  a  single  ray  of  oblique  light  under  the 
arches  and  the  cupolas,  strange  effects  are  produced  for 
the  eye  of  the  poet  and  the  visionary.  Tawny  lightnings 
burst  forth  suddenly  from  the  background  of  gold.  Little 
cubes  of  crystal  glisten  in  places,  like  the  sea  under  the 
sun.  The  contours  of  the  figures  tremble  in  this  scintillat- 
ing network ;  the  silhouette  now  so  clean-cut,  presently 
becomes  blurred  and  confused  to  the  eye.  The  stiff  folds 
of  the  dalmatics  seem  to  nod  and  to  float ;  a  mysterious 
life  glides  into  these  immobile  Byzantine  personages ;  the 
fixed  eyes  move,  the  arms  are  agitated  with  Egyptian 
gestures,  the  bound  feet  begin  to  walk,  the  cherubim 
spread  their  eight  wings ;  the  angels  spread  out  their 
long  plumes  of  azure  and  purple,  fastened  to  the  wall  by 
the  implacable  mosaist ;  the  genealogical  tree  rustles  its 
leaves  of  green  marble ;  the  lion  of  Saint  Mark  stretches 
himself,  yawns,  licks  his  paws ;  the  eagle  sharpens  his 

[     121     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

beak  and  polishes  his  plumage  ;  the  ox  turns  over  on 
his  htter,  and  chews  his  cud,  making  his  dewlap  undu- 
late ;  the  martyrs  raise  tliemselves  from  their  gridirons, 
or  detach  themselves  from  their  crosses ;  the  prophets 
converse  with  the  evangelists ;  the  doctors  make  remarks 
to  the  young  women  saints,  who  laugh  with  their  lips  of 
porphyry;  the  personages  of  the  mosaic  become  proces- 
sions of  phantoms  who  ascend  and  descend  the  walls, 
move  around  in  the  galleries  and  pass  before  you,  shak- 
ing the  golden  chevelure  of  their  nimbus.  It  is  a  bewil- 
derment, a  vertigo,  an  hallucination  ! 

The  real  meaning  of  the  Cathedral,  a  meaning  pro- 
found, mj^sterious,  solemn,  then  seems  to  appear.  One 
might  affirm  that  this  is  the  temple  of  a  Christianity 
anterior  to  Christ,  a  church  made  before  the  religion. 
The  ages  recede  in  the  infinite  perspective.  This  Trin- 
ity, is  it  not  a  trimurti  ?  This  Virgin,  does  she  hold  on 
her  laiees  Horus  or  Krislma  ?  Is  this  Isis  or  Parvati  ? 
This  figure  on  the  cross,  does  it  suffer  the  passion  of 
Jesus,  or  the  trials  of  Vishnu  ?  Are  we  in  Egypt  or  in 
India,  in  the  temple  of  Karnak  or  the  Pagoda  of  Jugger- 
naut ?  Do  these  figures  in  constrained  poses  differ  much 
from  the  procession  of  colored  hieroglyphics  which  wind 
around  the  pylones  or  bury  themselves  in  the  syringas. 

When  the  eyes  are  turned  from  the  arch  toward  the 
ground,  we  perceive  on  the  left  the  little  chapel  erected 
to  the  painting  of  a  miraculous  Christ,  which  having 
been  struck  by  a  profane  hand,  emitted  blood.  Its  dome, 
supported  by  columns  of  an  extreme  rareness,  two  of 
which  are  of  white  and  black  porphyry,  has  for  its  crown 
a  ball  formed  of  an  agate  which  is  probably  the  largest 
in  the  world. 

In  the  background  the  choir  spreads  out,  with  its 
balustrade,  its  columns  of  porphyry,  its  row  of  statues 
sculptured  by  the  Massegna  brothers,  and  its  great 
cross  of  metal  by  Jacopo  Benato ;  its  two  pulpits  of  col- 

[     122     ] 


VENICE 

St.  Mark's  —  Presbytery  and  Pulpits 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

ored  marble,  and  its  altar  of  which  one  catches  a  glimpse 
under  a  dais  between  four  columns  of  Greek  marble, 
chiseled  like  Chinese  ivory  by  patient  hands  which  have 
inscribed  the  whole  stor}^  of  the  Old  Testament  in  figures 
a  few  inches  in  height. 

We  should  need  more  space  than  we  have  at  our  dis- 
posal to  describe  m  detail  the  chapel  of  Saint  Clement, 
of  the  Virgin  del  Mascoli,  where  there  is  a  magnificent 
altar  picture  by  Nicolas  Pisano,  and  marvels  of  art  which 
one  encounters  at  every  corner. 

At  one  time  it  is  a  Madonna  with  its  Bambino  of  ala- 
baster of  an  exquisite  sweetness,  at  another  a  bas-relief 
of  charming  workmanship,  in  which  peacocks  form  a 
nimbus  of  their  tails ;  or  a  disc  of  enameled  arabesques, 
a  pair  of  bronze  candelabras  of  a  chiseling  that  would 
discourage  Benvenuto  Cellini,  or  some  curious  or  vener- 
able object  of  art  or  of  devotion. 

The  paving  of  mosaic,  which  undulates  like  a  sea, 
offers  the  most  wonderful  medley  of  arabesques,  foliage, 
flower-work,  lozenges,  tesselatings,  cranes,  griffins,  chi- 
meras winged,  clawed,  rampant,  or  climbing,  like  the 
monsters  of  the  heraldic  art.  One  is  really  confounded  by 
the  creative  faculty  displayed  by  man  in  this  fantasy  of 
decoration.  It  is  a  whole  world  as  varied,  as  swarming, 
as  the  other,  and  which  takes  its  forms  from  itself. 

What  time,  care,  patience,  and  genius,  what  expense 
tlu'oughout  eight  centuries  has  been  necessary  to  complete 
this  immense  aggregation  of  riches  and  masterpieces !  How 
many  golden  sequins  have  been  melted  in  the  glass  of 
the  mosaics!  How  many  antique  temples  and  mosques 
have  yielded  their  columns  to  support  these  cupolas ! 
What  numbers  of  quarries  have  exhausted  their  veins 
for  these  flag-stones,  these  pillars,  and  these  facings  of 
brocatelles  of  Verona,  marbles  of  all  colors,  of  alabaster, 
of  veined  granite,  of  mosaic  granite,  of  red  porphyr}^  of 
black  and  white  porphyry,  of  serpentine,  and  of  jasper ! 

[     123     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

What  armies  of  artists  succeeding  each  other  from  gener- 
ation to  generation,  have  designed,  chiseled,  sculptured, 
in  this  Cathedral !  Not  to  mention  the  unknown,  the 
humble  workmen  of  the  Middle  Ages,  whom  the  night 
of  time  covers,  who  are  buried  in  their  works,  what  a 
list  of  names  could  be  prepared  worthy  to  be  inscribed 
in  the  golden  book  of  Art ! 

Among  the  painters  who  have  furnished  designs  for 
the  mosaics,  for  there  is  not  a  single  picture  in  Saint 
Mark's,  one  reckons  Titian,  Tintoretto,  Palma  the  Paduan, 
Salviati,  Aliensi,  Pilotti,  Sabastien  Rizzi,  Tizianello ; 
among  the  master  mosaists,  —  at  the  head  of  whom  must 
be  placed  the  elder  Petrus,  author  of  the  colossal  Christ 
which  occupies  the  centre  of  the  church,  —  the  brothers 
Zuccati,  Bozza,  Vincenzo  Bianchini,  Luigi  Gaetano, 
Michael  Zambono,  Giacomo  Passerini ;  among  the  sculp- 
tors,—  all  men  of  an  extraordinary  talent  and  of  whom  it 
is  astonishing  that  they  are  not  better  known, —  Pierre 
Lombard,  Campanato,  Zuanne  Alberghetti,  Paolo  Savi, 
the  brothers  Massegna,  Jacopo  Benato,  Sansovino,  Pier- 
Zuana  delle  Campane,  Lorenzo  Breglino,  and  a  thousand 
others,  a  single  one  of  whom  would  suffice  for  the  glory 
of  an  epoch. 

Saint  Mark's,  although  we  may  not  be  living  in  a  very 
devout  age,  always  has  in  some  corner  a  little  group  of 
faithful  ones  who  are  hearing  mass,  or  isolated  devotees 
who  are  praying  before  a  special  saint  or  some  beloved 
or  privileged  Madonna. 

The  old  women  abound  as  everywhere ;  but  there  are 
also  yomig  women  there  whose  fervor  is  not  less,  who 
kiss  the  feet  of  the  statues,  pass  their  hands  over  the 
images,  tracing  a  cross,  and  who  gather  up  with  their 
lips  the  atoms  of  sanctity  amassed  by  their  fingers, —  re- 
spectable puerihties,  the  childishness  of  a  living  faith,  at 
which  one  may  laugh,  but  which  is  nevertheless  touching. 

There  are  some  of  these  images  of  hardest  marble, 
[     124     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

those  which  repel  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor,  which  have 
melted  and  fused  like  wax  under  the  ardor  and  persistence 
of  these  kisses ! 

In  front  of  the  chiu-ch  rise  the  three  standards  wliich 
bore  the  banners  of  the  Republic,  supported  by  the 
bronze  pedestals  by  Alessandro  Leopardo  representing 
marine  divinities,  chimeras  of  an  exquisite  workmanship 
and  an  admirable  polish. 

These  three  standards  symbolized  in  the  days  of  old 
the  kingdoms  of  Cyprus,  Candia,  and  Morea,  the  three 
maritime  possessions  of  Venice. 


[     125     ] 


XXiXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

CHAPTER    X 
THE    DUCAL    PALACE. 


THE  Ducal  Palace,  in  the  form  in  wliich  we  see 
it  to-day,  dates  from  the  time  of  Marino  Faliero, 
and  is  the  successor  of  a  more  ancient  one,  begun 
in  819,  under  Angelo  Participazio,  and  continued  by 
the  various  doges.  It  was  Marino  Faliero  who  caused 
to  be  built  in  1355  the  two  facades  which  look  toward 
the  Mole  and  the  Piazetta.  This  construction  brought 
good  fortune  neither  to  him  who  gave  the  order  nor  to 
the  architect:  the  one  was  beheaded  and  the  other 
hanged.  It  is,  however,  unfortunate  for  the  paral- 
lelism of  the  legend  that  the  architect  of  the  Palace 
should  not  have  been  Philippe  Calendario,  as  has  hither- 
to been  believed,  but  Pietro  Bassagio,  as  is  proven  by  a 
document  discovered  by  the  Abbe  Cadorin.  However, 
the  story  has  a  chance  of  being  investigated  anew.  Cal- 
endario worked  on  the  sculptures  of  the  capitals  of  the 
first  gallery,  which  are  masterpieces  of  arabesque  and 
ornamentation ;  this  thread  suffices  to  connect  his  hang- 
iner  with  the  sinister  influence  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 

One  enters  into  this  strange  edifice  —  at  the  same 
time  palace,  senate-house,  judgment  hall  and  prison  un- 
der the  government  of  the  Republic  —  by  a  charming 
door  at  the  corner  of  Saint  Mark's,  between  the  pillars 
of  Samt  John  of  Acre  and  the  enormous  stocky  column 
which  supports  the  immense  weight  of  the  white  and 
rose  marble  wall,  which  gives  so  much  originality  to  the 
aspect  of  the  Palace  of  the  Doges.  This  door,  called 
Delia  Carta,  of  a  charming  style  of  architecture,  adorned 
with  small  columns,  with  trefoils  and  statues,  without 
reckoning    the  inevitable  winged   lion  and   the    Saint 

[      l-'G      ] 


VENICE 

Ducal  Palace.     (By  JuJm,  Bartholomew,  and  Pantaleo  Bov) 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

Mark  de  rigueui\  conducts  by  an  arched  passage  into 
the  great  interior  Court ;  this  somewhat  peculiar  ar- 
rangement of  an  entrance  which  is  separated  from  the 
edifice  to  which  it  leads,  has  the  advantage  of  not  dis- 
turbing in  any  way  the  unity  of  the  facades,  nor  any 
projection  except  that  of  the  monumental  windows. 

Before  passing  under  its  arch  let  us  glance  at  the 
exterior  of  the  Palace  in  order  to  notice  some  interesting 
details.  Above  the  big  and  robust  column  of  which  we 
have  spoken,  there  is  a  bas-relief  of  glooni}^  aspect  rep- 
resenting the  Judgment  of  Solomon,  with  the  costumes 
of  the  Middle  Ages  and  a  certain  barbarity  of  execution 
which  makes  the  subject  difficult  of  recognition.  It  is 
on  this  bas-relief  that  the  long  twisted  columnette  which 
winds  about  each  angle  of  the  edifice  abuts.  At  the 
opposite  corner,  on  the  side  toward  the  sea,  Adam  and 
Eve  are  to  be  seen,  decently  clothed  in  fig-leaves,  and 
at  the  corner  which  indents  the  Bridge  of  la  Faille,  the 
patriarch  Noah,  whose  nakedness  Shem  and  Japhet  are 
covering,  while  Ham,  the  disrespectful  son,  is  sneering 
in  a  corner  at  the  return  of  the  wall.  The  old  man's 
arms,  treated  with  a  fine  Gothic  sharpness,  show  all  the 
muscles  and  veins. 

At  the  fagade  of  the  Piazetta,  at  the  second  tier  of 
galleries,  two  columns  of  red  marble  mark  the  place 
where  sentences  of  death  were  read,  a  custom  which  still 
exists  to-day.  The  thirteenth  capital  of  the  lower  gal- 
lery, going  out  from  Saint  Mark's,  is  very  highly  praised 
and  contains  in  eight  compartments  that  number  of 
epochs  of  human  hfe,  very  fuiely  rendered.  All  the 
capitals,  however,  are  of  an  exquisite  taste  and  wonder- 
ful variety.  Not  one  repeats  itself.  They  contain  chi- 
meras, children,  angels,  fantastic  animals,  sometimes 
from  subjects  taken  from  the  Bible  or  from  history,  min- 
gled with  foliage  of  the  acanthus,  fruits,  and  flowers 
which  make  wonderfully  evident  the  poverty  of  inven- 

[     127     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

tion  of  our  modern  architects ;  several  bear  half-effaced 
inscriptions  in  Gothic  characters,  which  would  need  a 
skilful  paleographist  in  order  to  read  them  fluently ; 
seventeen  arcades  may  be  counted  on  the  Mole,  and 
eighteen  on  the  Piazetta. 

The  door  of  Delia  Carta  leads  to  the  Stairway  of  the 
Giants,  which  has  nothing  of  the  gigantic  in  itself,  but 
which  takes  its  name  from  two  colossal  figures  of  Nep- 
tmie  and  of  Mars,  of  a  dozen  feet  in  height,  by  Sanso- 
vino,  posed  on  pedestals  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  This 
stairway,  leading  from  the  floor  of  the  Court  to  the  sec- 
ond gallery,  which  extends  to  the  interior  as  well  as  the 
exterior  of  the  Palace,  was  built  under  the  rule  of 
Doge  Agostino  Barbarigo,  by  Antonio  Rizzio.  It  is  of 
white  marble,  and  decorated  by  Dominique  and  Bernar- 
din  of  Mantua,  with  arabesques  and  trophies  of  a  perfec- 
tion which  has  been  the  despair  of  all  the  decorators, 
chiselers,  and  enamelers  of  the  world.  It  is  no  longer 
architecture,  it  is  the  art  of  the  silversmith  such  as 
Benvenuto  Cellini  and  Vechta  alone  could  execute. 

Each  bit  of  this  carved  balustrade  is  a  world  of  inven- 
tion ;  the  arms  and  helmets  of  each  bas-relief,  all  dis- 
similar, are  of  the  rarest  fantasy  and  purest  style.  Even 
the  steps  are  enameled  with  exquisite  ornamentations, 
and  yet  who  is  acquainted  with  Dominique  and  Bernardin 
of  Mantua  ?  Human  memory,  already  wearied  with  a 
himdred  illustrious  names,  refuses  to  retain  them  and 
leaves  to  oblivion  names  which  merit  lasting  fame. 

At  the  base  of  this  stairway  are  situated,  at  the  place 
where  the  knobs  of  the  rail  are  usually  located,  two 
baskets  of  fruit,  worn  away  by  the  hands  of  those  who 
ascend.  One  of  those  lively  characters  who  find  a  mali- 
cious intent  in  everything,  asserts  that  these  baskets  of 
fruit  signified  the  state  of  maturity  which  ought  to  be- 
long to  those  who  went  to  the  Senate  house  to  discuss 
the  affairs  of  the  Republic.     Dominique  and  Bernardin, 

[     l-'S    ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

were  they  to  return  to  earth,  woukl  doubtless  be  greatly- 
surprised  at  the  profound  meaning  which  ^stheticism  has 
attached  to  the  marble  carved  by  them  without  thought 
on  their  part  for  anything  but  its  beauty,  humble  and 
great  artists  that  they  were.  The  statues  of  Neptune  and 
Mars,  in  spite  of  their  great  height  and  the  exaggerated 
swelling  of  their  muscles,  as  a  matter  of  fact  are  some- 
what lacking  in  vigor  when  considered  as  a  whole  ;  but 
as  far  as  architecture  is  concerned,  they  hold  their  place 
in  a  lofty  and  majestic  fashion.  The  pUnth  bears  the 
name  of  the  artist,  whom  we  consider  to  have  done  bet- 
ter work  in  his  statuettes  of  apostles  and  his  door  of  the 
sacristy  at  Saint  Mark's. 

Arrived  at  the  top  of  this  stairway,  turning  about,  one 
has  before  him  the  inner  facade  of  the  door  of  Barthol- 
omew, all  decorated  with  columnettes  and  with  statues, 
with  remains  of  blue  painting  starred  with  gold  in  the 
tympans  of  the  arches.  Among  the  statues,  one  in  par- 
ticular is  very  remarkable.  It  is  an  Eve,  by  Antonio 
Rizzio  of  Verona,  sculptured  in  1471.  A  certain  Gothic 
timidity  still  rules  in  her  charming  Unes,  and  her  modest 
pose  recalls  with  an  adorable  awkwardness  the  attitude 
of  the  Venus  de  Medici,  that  pagan  Eve  who  holds  in 
her  hand  a  leaf  of  the  absent  fig-tree. 

The  artists  prior  to  the  Renaissance,  who  had  few 
occasions  to  deal  with  the  nude,  put  into  it  a  sort  of 
pudic  embarrassment  and  infantine  na'ivet^  which  pleases 
us  extremely.  The  other  face  which  looks  toward  the 
cisterns  was  built  in  1607  in  Renaissance  style,  with  col- 
umns and  niches  enclosing  antique  statues  which  came 
from  Greece  and  wliich  represent  warriors,  orators,  and 
divinities.  A  clock  and  a  statue  of  the  Duke  Urbino, 
sculptured  by  Gio  Bandini  of  Florence,  in  1625,  com- 
pletes this  severe  and  classic  fa9ade. 

In  permitting  your  eyes  to  wander  toward  the  middle  of 
the  Court,  you  perceive  what  are  apparently  magnificent 

[      1-^9     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

bronze  altars.  They  are  in  reality  the  mouths  of  cisterns 
of  Nicolo  de  Conti  and  of  Francesco  Alberghetti.  The 
one  dates  from  1556,  the  other  from  1559.  Both  are 
chefs-d'oeuvre.  They  represent,  beside  the  necessary  ac- 
companiment of  griffins,  sirens,  and  chimeras,  different 
aquatic  subjects  drawn  from  Scripture. 

The  richness  of  invention,  the  exquisite  taste,  the 
perfection  of  chiseling,  the  finish  of  the  work  of  these 
curbs  of  pits,  which  are  enhanced  by  the  polish  and  rust 
of  time,  cannot  be  imagined.  Even  the  interior  of  the 
mouth,  garnished  with  plates  of  bronze,  is  decorated 
with  a  damask  of  arabesques.  These  two  cisterns  are 
supposed  to  contain  the  best  water  in  Venice.  They  are 
also  very  much  frequented,  and  the  ropes  which  draw 
the  buckets  have  worn  grooves  on  the  brass  border  two 
or  three  inches  in  depth. 

Nowhere  in  Venice  will  you  find  a  place  more  pro- 
pitious for  the  study  of  the  interesting  class  of  water- 
carriers  whose  beauty  is  celebrated,  in  our  opinion,  some- 
what undeservedly,  since,  for  a  few  pretty  ones  we  have 
seen  many  who  were  old  and  ugly.  Their  costume  is 
quite  characteristic.  Their  heads  are  covered  with  a 
man's  hat  of  black  felt,  and  tliej^  are  clothed  in  a  great 
petticoat  of  black  cloth,  which  mounts  up  to  their  arm- 
pits, like  an  Empire  waist ;  their  feet  are  bare  as  well 
as  their  legs,  tliough  sometimes  clothed  with  a  cut-off 
stocking,  after  the  fashion  of  the  peasants  of  Huerta  in 
Valencia.  A  chemisette  of  coarse  muslin,  folded  on  the 
breast  and  with  short  sleeves,  completes  the  costume. 
They  carry  the  water  on  their  shoulders  in  two  buckets 
of  red  leather.  The  majority  of  these  women  are 
Tyroliennes. 

At  the  moment  when  we  stopped  at  the  top  of  the 
stairway,  there  was  leaning  upon  the  bronze  edge  of 
the  Cistern  of  Nicolo  de  Conti,  one  of  these  Tyrolean 
women  who  drew  up  with  considerable  effort,  for  she  was 

[      1^0      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

small  and  delicate,  one  of  these  buckets  full  of  water. 
Her  neck  bent  downward  allowed  to  be  seen,  under  her 
masculme  hat,  a  twisted  fringe  of  pretty  blonde  hair  and 
the  beginning  of  fairly  white  shoulders  where  the  sun- 
burn had  not  yet  entirely  melted  the  snow  of  the  moun- 
tain. A  painter  would  have  made  it  the  subject  of  an 
agreeable  genre  picture.  We  much  prefer  the  Spanish 
and  African  habit  of  carrying  the  water  on  the  head  in 
a  balanced  amphora,  to  that  of  walking  bowed  down 
between  two  buckets.  The  women  there  assume  a  no- 
bility of  bearing  that  is  astonishing.  But  this  is  enough 
on  the  subject  of  female  water-carriers. 

Near  the  Stairway  of  the  Giants  is  to  be  seen  an  in- 
scription framed  in  ornamentations  and  figurines  by  Ales- 
sandro  Vittoria,  which  recalls  the  journey  of  Henry  III 
to  Venice,  and,  further  on,  at  the  entrance  to  the  golden 
staircase  in  the  gallery,  two  statues  by  Antonio  Aspetti, 
Hercules  and  Atlas  bending  under  the  starry  firmament, 
the  weight  of  which  the  robust  hero  is  about  to  carry  on 
his  ox-hke  shoulders.  This  stairway,  very  magnificent, 
adorned  with  stuccos  by  Vittoria  and  paintings  by  Giam- 
batisto,  is  by  Sansovino,  and  leads  to  the  Library,  which 
now  occupies  many  balls  of  the  Palace  of  the  Doges ;  to 
attempt  to  describe  them  one  by  one  woidd  be  a  labor 
of  patience  and  of  erudition  which  would  demand  a  vol- 
ume and  which  would  be  more  fitting  in  a  special  guide- 
book than  in  a  book  of  travels. 

The  ancient  hall  of  the  Great  Council  is  one  of  the 
largest  in  existence.  The  Court  of  the  Lions  and  that 
of  the  Alhambra  could  be  put  into  it  with  ease.  Upon 
entering,  one  is  overcome  with  amazement.  By  an 
effect  very  frequent  in  architecture,  this  hall  seems  much 
larger  than  the  structure  in  which  it  is  enclosed.  A 
solemn  and  severe  wainscoting,  where  bookcases  have 
replaced  the  stalls  of  the  old  Senators,  serves  for  a 
plinth  with  immense  paintings  which  unfold  themselves 

[     131     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

all  around  the  wall,  interrupted  only  by  the  windows, 
under  a  row  of  portraits  of  Doges,  and  a  colossal  ceiling 
entirely  gilded,  with  an  incredible  lavishness  and  exuber- 
ance of  ornamentation,  with  great  compartments,  square, 
octagonal,  oval,  with  flowers,  volutes,  and  rockwork  in  a 
taste  not  very  appropriate  to  the  style  of  the  Palace,  but 
so  grandiose  and  magnificent  that  one  is  dazzled  by  it. 

Unfortunately,  by  reason  of  indispensable  repairs,  the 
canvases  of  Paul  Veronese,  of  Tintoretto,  of  Palma  the 
younger,  and  other  great  masters  which  filled  these 
superb  frames  have  been  removed  for  the  present. 

We  greatly  regretted  not  being  able  to  admire  that 
personification  of  Venice  by  Paul  Veronese,  so  radiant 
and  spirited,  and  which  seems  the  very  incarnation  of 
the  genius  of  that  great  master. 

One  of  the  sides  of  the  hall,  that  of  the  door  of  en- 
trance, is  entirely  occupied  by  a  gigantic  Paradise  by 
Tintoretto,  which  contains  a  whole  world  of  figures. 
The  sketch  of  an  analogous  subject,  which  may  be  seen 
in  the  Museum  of  the  Louvre,  in  Paris,  furnishes  an  idea 
of  their  composition,  the  genre  of  which  pleased  the  fiery 
and  tumultuous  genius  of  this  virile  artist,  who  fitted  so 
so  well  his  name  —  Jacopo  Robusti.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  ro- 
bust picture  and  it  is  a  pity  that  time  should  have  so  great- 
ly obscured  it.  The  smoky  shadows  which  cover  it  make 
it  almost  as  appropriate  for  an  inferno  as  for  a  Paradise. 

Behind  this  canvas,  a  circumstance  which  we  have 
not  been  able  to  verify,  exists,  it  is  said,  an  ancient  Par- 
adise painted  on  the  wall  in  green  cameo,  by  Guari- 
ento  of  Padua,  in  the  year  1365.  It  would  be  interest- 
ing to  be  able  to  compare  that  green  Paradise  with  this 
black  Paradise.  It  is  only  Venice  which  has  paintings 
two  layers  deep. 

This  hall  is  a  kind  of  museum  of  Venetian  history,  like 
that  at  Versailles,  with  this  difference,  that  if  the  exploits 
are  of  less  magnitude,  the  painting  is  better.     Here  the 

[     132     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

subjects  of  the  pictures  are  for  the  greater  part  of  enor- 
mous dimensions  ;  Pope  Alexander  III  received  by  the 
Doge  Ziani ;  the  Pope  giving  the  liorn  to  the  Doge 
(which  is  the  name  given  the  ducal  hat,  from  which,  in 
fact,  a  curved  beak  issues)  ;  the  Ambassadors  presenting 
themselves  to  Emperor  Frederic  Barbarossa,  at  Pavia,  by 
Tintoretto;  the  Pope  giving  the  baton  of  Marshal  to 
the  Doge  who  is  embarking  on  his  ship,  by  Flamingo ; 
Otho,  son  of  Frederic,  made  prisoner  by  the  Venetians, 
by  Tintoretto ;  Otho  treating  for  peace  with  the  Pope  ; 
Frederic  and  the  Pope,  by  F.  Zuccato ;  arrival  of  the 
Pope,  Emperor,  and  Doge,  at  Ancona,  by  Girolamo 
Gambarete  ;  the  Pope  offering  gifts  to  the  Doge  in  Saint 
Peter's  at  Rome,  by  Giulio  del  Moro ;  the  return  of  the 
Doge  Andrea  Contarini,  conqueror  of  the  Genoese,  in 
1378,  by  Paul  Veronese,  in  his  old  age,  but  still 
worthy  of  the  master ;  Baldwin  elected  Emperor  at 
Constantinople  in  the  Church  of  Saint  Sophia,  by  A. 
Vincentino  ;  Baldwin  crowned  as  Emperor  by  the  Doge 
Enrico  Dandolo,  by  Aliense ;  Constantinople  taken  for 
the  first  time  by  the  Venetians,  having  at  their  head  the 
old  Dandolo,  by  Palma  the  younger,  and  for  the  second 
time  by  the  Venetians  allied  with  the  Crusaders  in  1204, 
by  Andrea  Vincentino  ;  Alexis,  son  of  the  Emperor  Isaac, 
invoking  the  protection  of  the  Venetians  in  favor  of 
his  father ;  the  assault  of  Zara,  by  Vincentino ;  the  taking 
of  Zara,  by  Tintoretto ;  the  league  of  the  Doge  Dandolo 
with  the  Crusaders  in  the  Church  of  Saint  Mark,  by 
Jean  Leclerc  ;  without  considering  the  allegorical  figures 
of  Aliense  and  of  Marco  Vecellio,  lodged  in  the  em- 
brasures, the  corners,  and  the  imposts,  which  could  not 
hold  great  historical  compositions. 

A  more  marvelous  cottp  cVceil  could  not  be  imagined 
than  this  immense  hall  entirely  covered  with  these  lofty 
paintings  in  which  Venetian  genius,  the  most  skilful  in 
its  arrangement  of  great  mechanical  compositions,  excels. 

[     133     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

From  all  parts  the  velvets  shimmer,  the  silk  rustles, 
the  taffeta  palpitates,  the  brocade  of  gold  displays  its 
grained  embroidery,  the  precious  stones  make  bosses  ; 
the  cuirasses  and  helmets,  fantastically  chiseled,  are 
frosted  with  hght  and  shade  and  launch  forth  their 
splendors  like  mirrors  ;  the  interstices  of  the  white 
columns  are  padded  with  the  blue  sky  peculiar  to  Venice, 
and  on  the  steps  of  the  marble  staircases  are  elevated 
groups  of  pompous  Senators,  of  men-at-arms,  of  patri- 
cians and  pages,  the  usual  personnel  of  the  Venetian 
pictures. 

In  the  paintings  of  battles  there  is  an  inextricable 
chaos  of  galleys  with  three-storied  castles,  mainsails,  top- 
sails, three  banks  of  oars,  towers,  machines  of  war,  and 
overturned  ladders  throwing  down  their  clusters  of  men  ; 
an  astonishing  mixture  of  overseers,  of  galley-slaves,  con- 
vict keepers,  convicts,  sailors,  and  men-at-arms,  over- 
whelming their  enemies  with  sledge-hammers,  cutlasses, 
and  barbaric  engines  of  war,  some  naked  to  the  girdle, 
others  clothed  in  a  peculiar  armor,  or  in  Oriental  cos- 
tumes of  a  fanciful  and  uncouth  style,  like  those  of 
the  Turks  of  Rembrandt ;  all  this  swarms  and  struggles 
on  backgromids  of  smoke  and  flame,  or  on  the  waves 
lashed  into  foam.  It  is  unfortunate  for  many  of  these 
paintings  that  time  has  added  its  smoke  to  that  of  the 
combat ;  but  if  the  eye  loses  on  this  account,  the  imagi- 
nation gains  by  it.  The  years  give  more  than  they  take 
away  from  the  paintings  upon  which  they  work.  Many 
of  the  masterpieces  owe  a  portion  of  their  merit  to  the 
rust  with  which  centuries  have  gilded  them. 

Above  these  great  historic  compositions  winds  a  row 
of  portraits  of  the  Doges  by  Tintoretto,  Bassan,  and 
other  painters.  In  a  corner  the  eye  is  arrested  by  a 
blackened  and  empty  frame  which  makes  a  gap,  sombre 
as  a  tomb,  in  this  chronological  gallery.  It  is  the  place 
which  the  portrait  of  Marino  Faliero  was  to  have  oc- 

[      134     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

cupied  and  which  bears  this  inscription  :  "  Locxis  Marini 
Phaletri,  decapitati  pro  criminihus.'" 

All  likenesses  of  Marino  Faliero  were  likewise  de- 
stroyed in  a  manner  such  as  to  make  his  portrait  im- 
possible to  be  found ;  it  is  claimed,  however,  that  one 
exists  in  the  possession  of  an  amateur  in  Verona.  The 
Republic  would  have  liked  to  suppress  the  memory  of 
this  proud  old  man  who  brought  it  to  the  verge  of  ruin. 
To  finish  with  Marino  Fahero,  let  us  state  that  he  was 
not  beheaded  at  the  top  of  the  Stairway  of  the  Giants, 
as  he  is  represented  to  have  been  in  some  prints,  for  the 
reason  that  this  stairway  was  only  built  150  years  later, 
but  at  the  opposite  corner,  at  the  other  end  of  the  gal- 
lery, on  a  landing-place  since  demolished.  Upon  emerg- 
ing on  the  balcony  of  the  great  window,  one  sees,  besides 
the  perspective  of  Saint  George  Major  and  the  Giudecca, 
a  pretty  statuette  of  Saint  George  by  Canova,  while  he 
was  still  studying  with  the  sculptor  Toretti,  and  which 
we  prefer  to  his  standard  works. 

We  propose  to  enumerate,  without  pretending  to  de- 
scribe them,  the  more  celebrated  halls  of  the  Palace. 
The  chamber  dei  Scarlatti  :  the  chimney-piece  is  covered 
with  reliefs  in  marble  of  the  finest  workmanship.  There 
is  also  to  be  seen  here  a  very  curious  bas-relief  of  marble 
representing  the  Doge  Loredano  on  his  knees  before  the 
Virgin  and  Child,  in  company  with  several  saints,  the 
admirable  work  of  an  unknown  artist. 

The  Hall  of  the  Shield :  It  is  here  that  the  armor  of 
the  living  Doge  was  emblazoned ;  it  is  hung  with  maps 
by  the  Abbe  Grisellini,  which  recount  the  discoveries  of 
Marco  Polo,  so  long  regarded  as  fabulous,  and  of  other 
illustrious  Venetian  voyagers,  such  as  Zeni  and  Cabot. 

A  map  of  the  world,  carved  on  wood,  discovered  on 
a  Turkish  galley,  is  preserved  here ;  it  is  of  an  irregular 
configuration,  according  to  Oriental  ideas,  and  all  bedi- 
zened with  Arab  letters  cut  with  a  wonderful  delicacy ; 
[     135     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

and  a  great  bird's-eye  view  of  Venice,  the  prototype  of 
which  is  to  be  found  at  the  Correr  museum,  by  Albert 
Durer,  who  Uved  for  a  long  time  in  the  City  of  the  Doges. 
This  great  artist,  at  the  same  time  so  fantastic  and  so 
correct,  who  introduced  the  chimera  into  mathematics, 
retraced  the  City  of  Gold,  —  the  citta  cToro  Petrarch 
named  it,  —  as  it  was  at  that  epoch,  with  scrupulous  de- 
tail and  strange  caprice.  He  has  placed  in  the  sea,  be- 
tween the  Piazetta  and  Saint  George's,  a  symbolic  Nep- 
tune, head  decked  with  madrepores,  surrounded  by  sea 
rushes,  all  bristling,  all  scaly,  striking  the  water  with 
fins  like  claws  and  shaking  a  beard  cut  like  the  mantle 
of  German  heraldry.  Four  winds,  with  distended  cheeks, 
indicate  the  four  cardinal  points  of  the  compass.  Weird 
craft,  galleys,  galleasses,  bombs,  boats,  organs,  flutes, 
caracs,  ships  of  all  kinds,  plough  a  sea  chopped  into  lit- 
tle waves,  where  dolphins  leap  from  the  yawning  depths. 
In  this  map  the  Campanile  is  not  yet  supplied  with  its 
sharp-pointed  steeple ;  it  is  a  simple  tower.  The  Zecca 
and  the  Library  have  not  the  foim  which  they  have  to- 
day. The  Customhouse  is  in  its  place,  of  different  con- 
struction, but  the  church  Delia  Salute  does  not  exist. 
At  the  place  where  somewhat  later  the  Rialto  rises  to 
view,  there  is  a  wooden  bridge  furnished  with  planks, 
the  center  of  whicli  is  occupied  by  a  platform  which  is 
raised  by  chains.  In  general,  the  aspect  of  the  city  is 
the  same,  since  for  three  centuries  not  a  single  stone  has 
been  placed  upon  another  in  the  cities  of  Italy. 

Continuing  the  nomenclature,  we  call  attention  next 
to  the  Hall  of  the  Philosophers,  in  which  a  very  beauti- 
ful chimney-piece  by  Pierre  Lombard  is  to  be  noticed. 
The  Hall  of  the  Stuccos,  so  named  on  account  of  its 
ornamentation :  It  contains  paintings  by  Salviati,  Por- 
denone,  and  Bassan ;  the  Virgin,  a  Descent  from  the 
Cross,  and  the  Nativity  of  Jesus  Christ.  The  Banquet 
HaU :  It  was  here  that  the  Doge  gave  certain  diplomatia 

C     136    ] 


VENICE 

The  Court  of  the  Ducal  Palace 


JOURNEYS     IN      ITALY 


banquets,  the  state  dinners,  as  we  should  call  them  to- 
day. A  portrait  of  Henry  III  may  be  seen  there,  by 
Tintoretto,  very  fine,  and  very  vigorous,  and,  facing  the 
door,  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi,  a  warm  painting  by 
Bonifazio,  that  great  master,  of  whose  work  we  have 
almost  nothing  in  Paris.  The  Hall  of  the  Four  Doors : 
This  is  preceded  by  a  square  salon,  the  ceiling  of  which, 
painted  by  Tintoretto,  represents  Justice,  who  is  giving 
the  sword  and  scales  to  the  Doge  Priuli. 

The  four  doors  are  decorated  with  statues  of  a  grand 
tournure  by  Giulio  del  Moro,  Francesco  Caselli,  Giro- 
lamo  Campagna,  Alessandra  Vittoria ;  the  paintings  by 
which  it  is  enriched  are  masterpieces  :  The  Doge  Marino 
Grimani  kneeling  before  the  Holy  Virgin  with  Saint 
Mark  and  other  saints,  by  Contarini,  is  admirable  ;  the 
Doge  Antonio  Grimani  in  hke  attitude  before  the  figure 
of  Faith,  by  Titian,  a  blonde  and  superb  painting  which 
loses  nothing  of  its  effect  by  reason  of  the  simplicity  of 
its  style.  Opposite,  Carletto  Cagliari  has  painted  the 
Doge  Cicogna  receiving  the  Ambassadors  from  Persia,  a 
charming  opportunity  for  brocades,  turbans,  aigrettes, 
and  strings  of  pearls  for  an  artist  of  the  school  and 
family  of  Paul  Veronese. 

An  immense  piece  by  Andrd  Michel,  called  the  Vin- 
centino,  represents  the  arrival  of  Henry  HI  at  the  Lido 
of  Venice,  where  he  is  received  by  the  Doge  Mocenigo, 
the  Patriarch,  and  the  magistrates,  under  the  triumphal 
arch  raised  for  the  occasion,  according  to  designs  by 
Palladio.  This  great  composition  has  the  opulent  and 
gorgeous  aspect  common  to  all  the  paintings  of  the  best 
days  of  the  Venetian  school  created  to  paint  luxury. 

A  picture  of  the  same  Carlo  Cagliari,  representing  the 
Doge  giving  audience  to  the  Ambassadors  of  State,  com- 
pletes the  symmetry.  The  compartments  of  the  ceihng 
are  the  work  of  Palladio,  the  stuccos  are  by  Vittoria 
and  Bombarda,  according  to  the  designs  of  Sansovino ;  a 

[     137     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Venice  by  Tintoretto,  conducted  by  Jupiter  upon  the 
Adriatic,  in  the  midst  of  a  cortege  of  divinities,  occupies 
the  central  compartment.  . 

Let  us  pass  from  this  hall  into  the  Anti- Collegia, 
which  is  the  waiting-room  of  the  Ambassadors ;  the 
architecture  is  that  of  Scamozzi.  The  envoys  of  the 
various  Powers  who  came  to  present  their  letters  ac- 
crediting them  to  the  most  serene  Republic  could  not 
expect  immediate  admittance ;  the  masterpieces  en- 
shrined in  this  splendid  antechamber  have  about  them 
that  which  ought  to  have  made  them  wait  patiently. 
The  four  paintings  placed  near  the  door  are  by  Tinto- 
retto, and  are  among  his  best.  We  know  among  his 
works,  of  equal  strength,  only  the  Adam  and  Eve,  and 
the  Cain  and  Abel  of  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts.  The 
following  are  the  subjects :  Mercury  and  the  Graces ; 
The  Forges  of  Vulcan  ;  Pallas,  accompanied  by  Joy  and 
Abundance  which  drive  away  Mars;  Ariadne  consoled 
by  Bacchus.  Apart  from  some  foreshortening  a  trifle 
forced  and  some  violent  attitudes,  the  difficulty  of 
which  was  pleasing  to  this  master,  one  can  but  praise 
the  vigorous  energy  of  touch,  the  warmth  of  the  color- 
ing, the  naturalness  of  the  flesh  tints,  the  power  of  life 
and  that  virile  and  charming  grace  which  characterizes 
his  great  talent  for  rendering  agreeable  subjects. 

But  the  marvel  of  this  sanctuary  of  art  is  the  Enleve- 
ment d'Euroije,  by  Paul  Veronese.  The  beautiful  young 
woman  is  seated,  as  upon  a  throne  of  silver,  on  the  back 
of  the  Divine  Bull  about  to  plunge  in  the  blue  sea 
which  endeavors  to  reach  with  its  amorous  billows  the 
feet  which  Europa  lifts  in  infantine  fear  of  wetting 
them  —  an  ingenious  detail  of  the  metamorphosis  which 
the  painter  took  care  not  to  forget.  The  companions  of 
Europa,  not  knowing  that  a  god  is  hiding  himself  under 
the  noble  form  of  this  beautiful  yet  so  gentle  and  famil- 
iar animal,  flock  to  the  shore  and  throw  him  garlands  of 

[     138     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

flowers,  not  suspecting  that  Europa,  so  carried  off,  is 
about  to  give  her  name  to  a  Continent  and  become  the 
mistress  of  Zeus  with  the  black  eyebrows  and  ambro- 
sial locks.  What  beautiful  white  shoulders !  What  a 
blonde  neck  with  twisted  plaits  of  hair !  What  round 
and  charming  arms  1  What  a  smile  of  eternal  youth  in 
that  marvelous  canvas  in  which  Paul  Veronese  seems 
to  have  uttered  his  final  word !  Sky,  clouds,  trees, 
flowers,  earth,  seas,  flesh,  draperies,  all  seem  steeped  in 
the  light  of  an  unknown  elysium.  All  is  fresh  and 
glowing  as  youth,  seductive  as  voluptuousness,  calm  and 
pure  as  strength ;  there  is  no  mannerism  in  this  grace, 
nothing  unhealthy  in  this  radiant  joyousness.  In  front 
of  this  canvas  —  and  it  is  a  great  eulogy  for  Watteau 
—  we  thought  of  the  Departure  for  Cythera ;  only,  for 
the  brilliancy  of  the  lamps  of  the  opera  must  be  sub- 
stituted the  splendid  day  of  the  Orient;  for  the  roguish 
puppets  of  the  Regency,  in  robes  of  rumpled  taffeta,  the 
superb  bodies  in  which  Greek  beauty  becomes  pliant 
under  Venetian  voluptuousness. 

If  it  were  given  us  to  choose  a  single  piece  from 
all  the  works  of  Paul  Veronese,  this  is  the  one  we 
should  prefer ;  it  is  the  most  beautiful  pearl  of  this  rich 
casket. 

On  the  ceiling,  the  great  artist  has  caused  his  dear 
Venice  to  be  seated  on  a  throne  of  gold,  with  that 
abundant  grace  of  which  he  possesses  the  secret.  For 
this  Assumption,  in  which  Venice  takes  the  place  of 
the  Virgin,  he  always  knows  where  to  find  azure  and 
new  rays. 

A  magnificent  chimney-piece  by  Aspetti,  a  cornice  in 
stucco  by  Vittoria  and  Bombarda,  some  blue  cameos  by 
Sebastian  Rizzi,  some  columns  of  cipolin  and  verd  an- 
tique framing  the  doorAvay,  complete  that  marvelous 
decoration  in  which  shines  forth  a  luxuriousness  the 
most  beautiful  of  all,  the  luxuriousness  of  genius. 1 

[      130      ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

The  Reception,  or  College  Hall,  next  presents  itself. 
We  find  there  Tintoretto  and  Paul  Veronese,  the  one 
rough  and  violent,  the  other  azured  and  calm ;  the  first 
works  on  the  great  sides  of  the  wall,  the  other  on  the 
immense  ceiling.  Tintoretto  has  painted  in  this  hall 
the  Doge  Andrea  Griffi  supplicating  the  Madonna  and 
the  Bambino,  the  marriage  of  Saint  Catherine  together 
with  divers  saints  and  the  Doge  Dona ;  the  Holy  Virgin 
under  a  canopy,  with  the  necessary  accompaniment 
of  angels,  saints  and  doges,  and  the  Redeemer  adored 
by  the  Doge  Luigi  INIocenigo.  On  the  other  side,  Paul 
Veronese  has  represented  Christ  Enthroned,  having  at 
his  side  Venice  personified.  Faith,  and  some  angels  who 
are  stretching  forth  their  hands  to  Sebastian  Venier, 
then  Doge,  who  gained  the  famous  victory  over  the 
Turks  at  Cursolari,  on  Saint  Justine's  day,  who  is  her- 
self introduced  into  the  picture ;  the  famous  proveditore 
Agostino  Barbarigo,  slain  in  this  combat,  and  the  two 
side  figures  of  Saint  Sebastian  and  Saint  Justine  in 
cameos  on  a  gray  ground,  the  former  alluding  to  the 
name  of  the  conqueror,  the  latter  to  the  date  of  the 
victory. 

The  ceiling,  which  is  magnificent,  contains  in  its 
compartments  the  complete  deification  of  Venice  by 
Paul  Veronese,  to  whom  this  subject  was  particularly 
delightful.  The  first  compartment  shows  us  Venice 
powerful  on  land  and  on  sea ;  the  second,  Venice  up- 
holding religion ;  the  third,  Venice,  the  friend  of  Peace, 
and  not  fearing  War ;  the  whole,  symbolized  with  force, 
allegories  of  grand  air  and  spirited  tournure,  on  ground 
of  fleecy  clouds,  permitting  a  turquoise  sky  occasionally 
to  be  seen.  As  if  this  apotheosis  were  not  enough, 
Venice  figures  again  above  the  window,  crown  on  head 
and  sceptre  in  hand,  painted  by  Carletto  Cagliari. 

We  will  not  speak  of  the  cameos,  the  grisailles,  the 
columns  of  verd  antique,  the  arches  of  flowered  jasper 

[     140     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

and  the  sculptures  of  G.  Campagna.  We  could  never 
make  an  end,  and  they  are  the  commonplace  magnifi- 
cences of  the  Palace  of  the  Doges. 

We  feel  that  we  are  prolonging  this  catalogue  unduly 
in  spite  of  ourselves,  but  at  every  step  a  masterpiece 
tugs  at  the  skirt  of  our  coat  as  we  pass  and  demands  a 
sentence  from  us.  There  is  no  resisting  it.  Not  being 
able  to  speak  of  all,  we  must  permit  your  imagination 
to  do  some  work.  There  are  still  in  the  Ducal  Palace 
other  admirable  halls  than  those  we  have  mentioned,  — 
the  Hall  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  the  Hall  of  the  Supreme 
Council,  the  Hall  of  the  State  Inquisitors,  and  others 
besides.  On  their  ceiUngs  and  their  walls,  the  Apothe- 
osis of  Venice  and  the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin  elbow 
each  other ;  the  doges  on  their  knees  before  one  or 
other  of  these  jNIadonnas  by  the  side  of  mythological 
heroes  and  fabled  gods  ;  the  lion  of  St.  Mark  is  jostled 
by  the  eagle  of  Jupiter,  the  Emperor  Frederic  Barba- 
rossa  by  a  Neptune,  the  Pope  Alexander  III  by  a  short- 
skirted  Allegory  ;  mingled  with  these,  stories  from  the 
Bible,  holy  Virgins  under  canopies,  conquests  of  Zara, 
enameled  with  more  episodes  than  a  song  of  Ariosto, 
surprises  of  Candia  and  capitulations  of  Turks,  sculp- 
tured door-frames,  embellished  cornices  of  stucco  and 
moulding.  Erect  statues  in  every  corner ;  gild  every- 
thing that  is  not  touched  by  the  brush  of  a  superior 
artist  ;  say  to  yourself,  "  All  those  who  have  labored 
here,  even  the  obscure,  have  twenty  times  as  much  tal- 
ent as  the  celebrities  of  our  day,  and  the  greatest  mas- 
ters have  worn  out  their  lives  here  "  ;  then  you  will 
have  a  feeble  idea  of  all  these  magnificences  which  defy 
description.  As  architects,  Antonio  da  Ponte,  Peter 
Lombard ;  as  painters,  Titian,  Paul  Veronese,  Tinto- 
retto, Carlo  Cagliari,  Bonifazio,  Vivarini,  J.  Palma, 
Aliense,  Contarini,  le  Moro,  le  Vicentino,  the  whole 
band  of  the  Bassans,  Zuccari,  Marco  Vecellio,  le  Ba- 

[     141     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

zacco,  Zelotti,  (jambareto,  Bozzato,  Salviati,  Malombra, 
Montemezzano,  and  Tiepolo,  that  charming  painter, 
great  master  of  the  Decadence,  under  whose  brush  ex- 
pired the  beautiful  Venetian  school,  exhausted  by  chefs- 
d'oeuvre  ;  as  sculptors  and  ornamentators,  Vittoria,  As- 
petti,  Fr.  Segala,  Girolamo  Campagna,  Bombarda,  Pietro 
di  Salo,  have  buried  in  these  halls  a  genius,  an  inven- 
tion, a  skill  which  is  incomparable. 

Painters  whose  names  are  not  uttered  once  in  a  cen- 
tury stand  their  ground  there  in  the  most  terrible  neigh- 
borhoods. One  might  say  that  genius  was  in  the  air  at 
that  climacteric  epoch  of  the  human  race,  and  that  noth- 
ing was  easier  to  accomplish  than  masterpieces.  The 
sculptors  especially,  who  are  never  mentioned,  display 
an  extraordinary  talent  and  yield  not  at  all  to  the 
greatest  illustrations  of  painting. 

Near  the  door  of  one  of  these  halls  can  still  be  seen, 
but  despoiled  of  all  its  prestige  of  terror  and  reduced  to 
the  state  of  a  letter-box  without  employment,  the  an- 
cient lion's  mouth  into  which  the  informers  threw  their 
denunciations.  It  is  now  only  a  hole  in  the  wall,  the 
mouth  has  been  torn  away. 

A  sombre  corridor  leads  you  from  the  Hall  of  the 
State  Inquisition  to  the  Sinks  and  Pits,  a  text  for  an  in- 
finity of  sentimental  declamations.  Certainly  it  was 
not  a  beautiful  prison  ;  but  the  truth  is  that  the  Sinks 
were  great  chambers  covered  with  lead,  the  material  of 
which  the  majority  of  the  roofs  of  the  buildings  of 
Venice  are  covered,  and  which  has  nothing  especially 
cruel  about  it,  and  that  the  Pits  in  nowise  plunge  under 
the  lagune.  We  visited  two  or  three  of  these  dungeons. 
We  expected  to  see  architectural  phantasmagoria  in  the 
style  of  Piranese  ;  arches,  stocky  pillars,  winding  stair- 
cases, complicated  gratings,  enormous  rings  fitted  into 
monstrous  blocks ;  air-holes  permitting  a  greenish  day- 
light to  filter  through  upon  a  damp  flagstone,  and  we 

[     142     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

wished  we  might  be  conducted  by  a  jailer  in  a  cap  of  fox- 
skin  adorned  with  its  tail,  and  making  the  bunches  of 
keys  at  his  girdle  jingle.  A  venerable  guide,  with  the 
face  of  the  door-keeper  of  the  Marais,  preceded  us,  a 
candle  in  his  hand,  through  dark,  narrow  passages. 

The  dungeon,  with  wooden  floors  on  the  interior,  has 
a  low  door  and  a  small  opening  made  opposite  the  lamp 
hung  on  the  ceiling  of  the  passageway.  A  wooden 
camp-bed  occupied  one  of  the  corners. 

It  was  stuffy  and  black,  but  without  melodramatic 
appliances.  A  philanthropist  arranging  a  dungeon  cell 
could  not  have  done  worse.  On  the  walls,  some  of  the 
inscriptions  may  be  deciphered,  which  the  ennui  of  the 
prisoners  engraved  with  a  nail  on  the  walls  of  their 
tomb ;  there  are  some  signatures,  dates,  short  sentences 
from  the  Bible,  philosophical  reflections  suited  to  the 
place,  a  timid  sigh  for  liberty,  sometimes  the  cause  of 
the  imprisonment,  —  like  the  inscription  in  which  a  cap- 
tive says  that  he  was  incarcerated  for  sacrilege,  having 
given  something  to  eat  to  a  corpse.  We  were  shown  at 
the  entrance  to  a  corridor  a  stone  seat  on  which  those 
who  were  secretly  executed  in  the  prison  were  made  to 
sit.  A  slender  rope,  thrown  round  the  neck  and  twisted 
in  the  manner  of  a  garrote,  strangled  them  in  the  Turk- 
ish fashion.  The  clandestine  executions  took  place 
only  in  the  case  of  State  prisoners  convicted  of  political 
crimes.  The  deed  done,  the  corpse  was  placed  in  a 
gondola  by  a  door  which  opens  on  the  Canal  de  la  Faille 
and  was  allowed  to  drift  seaward,  a  ball  or  stone  on 
its  feet,  into  the  Canal  Orfanello,  which  is  very  deep 
and  in  which  fishermen  were  forbidden  to  cast  their 
lines. 

The  common  assassins  were  executed  between  the 
two  columns,  at  the  entrance  to  the  Piazetta.  The 
Bridge  of  Sighs  which,  seen  from  the  Bridge  of  la 
Faille,  has  the  air  of  a  cenotaph  suspended  over  the 

[     143     ] 


JOUKNEYS      IN     ITALY 

water,  has  nothing  remarkable  in  the  interior;  it  is  a 
double  corridor  separated  by  a  wall  which  leads  under 
cover  from  the  Ducal  Palace  to  the  Prison,  a  severe 
and  solid  edifice  by  Antonio  da  Ponte,  situated  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Canal,  and  which  looks  toward  the 
lateral  fa9ade  of  the  Palace,  which  is  presumed  to  have 
been  built  according  to  plans  of  Antonio  Riccio.  The 
name  Bridge  of  Sighs  given  to  this  tomb,  which  con- 
nects two  prisons,  is  derived  probably  from  the  cries  of 
the  unfortunates  journeying  from  their  dungeon  to  the 
judgment  hall  and  from  the  judgment  hall  to  their 
dungeon,  bruised  by  torture,  or  despairing  on  account 
of  having  been  condemned. 

In  the  evening  this  canal,  compressed  between  the 
high  walls  of  the  two  sombre  edifices,  lighted  by  some 
infrequent  gleam,  has  a  sinister  and  very  mysterious 
air,  and  the  gondola  which  glides  by,  carrying  some 
loving  couple  going  to  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  the 
lagune,  has  the  appearance  of  carrying  a  burden  for  the 
Orfano  Canal. 

We  also  visited  the  ancient  apartments  of  the  doge ; 
there  is  nothing  remaining  of  the  former  magnificence, 
unless  it  be  a  highly  ornamented  ceiling  divided  into 
hexagonal  compartments  gilded  and  painted.  In  these 
compartments,  under  cover  of  the  foliage  and  rose-work, 
was  contrived  an  invisible  hole  through  which  the  In- 
quisitors of  State  and  the  members  of  the  Council  of 
Ten  could  spy  out  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  of  the 
night  what  the  doge  was  doing  at  home. 

The  wall,  not  content  with  listening  with  the  ear, 
like  the  prison  of  Denis  le  Tyran,  watched  with  an  eye 
always  open,  and  the  doge,  victor  at  Zara  or  at  Candia, 
heard  like  Angelo  "  steps  in  his  wall  "  and  felt  circulat- 
ing about  him  a  mysterious  and  jealous  espionage.  We 
also  saw  the  antique  statues  transported  from  the  Library 
of  Sansovino  to  the  Ducal  Palace. 

[     144     ] 


VENICE 

Bridye  of  Sighs,  built  by  Antonio  da  Ponte 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 


There  is  a  charming  group  of  Leda  and  the  Swan ; 
she  still  resists,  but  so  feebly,  with  a  virtue  so  lax  and 
a  refusal  so  provoking,  that  already  the  Divine  Bird 
has  surrounded  her  with  his  wing  as  with  a  nuptial 
curtain. 

A  halt  must  also  be  made  before  a  bas-relief  of 
children,  in  Parian  marble,  of  the  best  days  of  Greek 
sculpture ;  a  Jupiter  Aegiochus,  found  at  Ephesus ;  a 
Cleopatra,  and  especially  two  great  masks  of  Faun  and 
Faunesse,  of  a  singular  expression. 


[     145     ] 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  GRAND  CANAL 


NOW  we  are  going,  if  you  are  not  fatigued  by  that 
visit  to  tlie  Palace  of  the  Doges,  to  climb  again 
into  our  gondola  and  make  an  excursion  on  the 
Grand  Canal.  The  Grand  Canal  is  to  Venice  what  the 
Strand  is  to  London,  the  Rue  St.  Honore  to  Paris, 
the  Calle  d'Alcala  to  Madrid,  —  the  principal  artery  of 
circulation  of  the  city.  Its  form  is  that  of  an  S  turned 
upside  down,  the  hump  of  which  indents  the  city  on  the 
side  toward  Saint  Mark's  and  the  upper  tip  of  which 
extends  to  the  Isle  of  Santa-Chiara,  and  the  lower  point 
to  the  Customhouse,  near  the  Canal  of  la  Giudecca.  This 
S  is  cut  in  the  middle  by  the  bridge  of  the  Rialto. 

The  Grand  Canal  of  Venice  is  the  most  wonderful 
thing  in  the  world.  No  other  city  affords  a  spectacle  so 
fine,  so  bizarre,  so  fairy-like.  As  remarkable  bits  of 
architecture,  perhaps,  can  be  found  elsewhere,  but 
nowliere  located  mider  such  picturesque  conditions. 

There  each  palace  has  a  mirror  in  which  to  gaze  at 
its  beauty,  like  a  coquettish  woman.  The  superb  reality 
is  doubled  by  a  charming  reflection.  The  water  lovingly 
caresses  the  feet  of  these  beautiful  facades,  which  a  white 
light  kisses  on  the  forehead,  and  cradles  them  in  a 
double  sky.  The  small  boats  and  big  ships  which  are 
able  to  ascend  it  seem  to  be  made  fast  for  the  express 
purpose  of  serving  as  set-offs  or  ground-plans  for  the 
convenience  of  the  decorators  and  the  painters. 

In  traversing  the  length  of  the  Customhouse,  which 
with  the  Palace  of  Giustiniani,  which  to-day  is  the  Hotel 
de  I'Europe,  forms  the  entrance  to  the  Grand  Canal, 
cast  a  glance  upon  those  horses'  heads,  stripped  of  their 

[     HG     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

flesh  as  thougli  slaughtered,  sculptured  m  the  square 
and  solid  coruice  which  supports  the  Ball  of  Fortune : 
does  this  peculiar  decoration  signify  that  the  horse  is 
useless  in  Venice,  or  is  this  only  a  simple  caprice  of 
ornamentation  ? 

The  latter  explanation  seems  to  us  the  more  probable, 
as  we  should  not  like  to  fall  into  the  symboHcal  niceties 
which  we  have  criticised  in  others.  We  have  abeady 
described  la  Salute^  which  we  behold  from  our  window, 
and  at  which  there  is  no  necessity  to  halt  after  the  pic- 
ture of  Canaletto,  perhaps  the  greatest  work  of  that 
painter.  But  here  we  find  ourselves  embarrassed.  The 
Grand  Canal  is  the  veritable  book  of  gold,  where  aU  the 
Venetian  nobility  have  signed  their  names  ujjon  a  monu- 
mental fa9ade. 

Each  bit  of  wall  narrates  a  story ;  every  house  is  a 
palace  ;  at  each  stroke  of  the  oars  the  gondolier  mentions 
a  name  which  was  as  well  known  in  the  times  of  the 
Crusades  as  it  is  to-day ;  and  this  continues  both  to  left 
and  right  for  a  distance  of  more  than  half  a  league.  We 
have  made  a  list  of  these  palaces,  not  of  all,  but  of  the 
most  remarkable,  and  we  do  not  dare  to  transcribe  it  here 
on  account  of  its  length.  It  covers  five  or  six  pages : 
Pierre  Lombard,  Scamozzi,  Sansovino,  Sebastiano  Maz- 
zoni,  Sammichelli,  the  great  architect  of  Verona ;  Selva, 
Domenico  Rossi,  Visentini,  have  drawn  the  plans  and 
directed  the  construction  of  these  princely  dwellings, 
without  reckoning  the  miknown  artists  of  the  Middle 
Ages  who  built  the  most  picturesque  and  most  romantic 
of  them,  —  those  which  give  Venice  its  stamp  and  its 
originality. 

On  both  banks,  facades  altogether  charming  and 
beautifully  diversified  succeed  one  another  without 
interruption.  After  an  architecture  of  the  Renaissance 
with  its  columns  comes  a  palace  of  the  Middle  Ages  in 
Gothic  Arab  style,  of  which  the  Ducal  Palace  is  the 

[     147     ] 


JOUENEYS     IN     ITALY 

prototype,  with  its  balconies,  lancet  windows,  trefoils, 
and  acroteria.  Further  along  is  a  facade  adorned  with 
marble  plaques  of  various  colors,  garnished  with  medal- 
lions and  consoles ;  then  a  great  rose-colored  wall  in 
which  is  cut  a  large  window  with  columnettes  ;  all  styles 
are  found  there  —  the  Byzantine,  the  Saracen,  the 
Lombard,  the  Gothic,  the  Roman,  the  Greek,  and  even 
the  Rococo  ;  the  column  and  the  columnette  ;  the  lancet 
and  the  semicircle  ;  the  fanciful  capital,  full  of  birds  and 
of  flowers,  brought  from  Acre  or  from  Jaffa ;  the  Greek 
capital  found  in  Athenian  ruins ;  the  mosaic  and  the 
bas-rehef ;  the  classic  severity  and  elegant  fantasy  of  the 
Renaissance.  It  is  an  immense  gallery  open  to  the  sky, 
where  one  can  study  from  the  bottom  of  his  gondola  the 
art  of  seven  or  eight  centuries.  What  treasures  of 
genius,  talent,  and  money  have  been  expended  on  this 
space  which  may  be  traversed  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  1  What  tremendous  artists,  but  also  what  intelli- 
gent and  munificent  patrons!  What  a  pity  that  the 
patricians  who  knew  how  to  achieve  such  beautiful 
things  no  longer  exist  save  on  the  canvases  of  Titian,  of 
Tintoretto,  and  du  Moro  ! 

Even  before  reaching  the  Rialto,  you  have,  on  the 
left,  in  ascending  the  Canal,  the  Palace  Dario,  in  Gothic 
style ;  the  Palace  Venier,  which  presents  itself  by  an 
angle,  with  its  ornamentation,  its  precious  marbles  and 
medallions,  in  the  Lombard  style  ;  the  Fine  Arts,  a  clas- 
sic facade  joined  to  the  old  Ecolc  de  la  Charite  and  sur- 
mounted by  a  Venice  riding  upon  a  lion ;  the  Contarini 
Palace,  in  architectural  style  of  Scamozzi;  the  Rezzo- 
nico  Palace,  with  three  superimposed  orders  ;  the  triple 
Giustiniani  Palace,  in  the  style  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in 
which  resides  M.  Natale  Schiavoni,  a  descendant  of  the 
celebrated  painter  Schiavoni,  who  possesses  a  gallery 
of  pictures  and  a  beautiful  daughter,  the  living  reproduc- 
tion of  a  canvas  painted  by  her  ancestor ;   the  Foscari 

[     148    ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 


Palace,  recognizable  by  its  low  door,  by  its  two  stories 
of  coliininettes  supporting  lancets  and  trefoils,  where  in 
other  days  were  lodged  the  sovereigns  who  visited  Ven- 
ice, but  now  abandoned ;  the  Balbi  Palace,  from  the  bal- 
cony of  which  the  princes  leaned  to  watch  the  regattas 
which  took  place  upon  the  Grand  Canal  with  so  much 
pomp  and  splendor,  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  Republic ; 
the  Pisani  Palace,  in  the  German  style  of  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fifteenth  century ;  and  the  Tiepolo  Palace, 
very  smart  and  relatively  modern ;  on  the  right,  very 
close  to  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe,  there  nestles  between 
two  big  buildings,  a  dehcious  little  palace  which  is  com- 
posed of  a  window  and  a  balcony;  but  such  a  window 
and  balcony !  A  guipure  of  stone,  of  scrolls,  of  guillo- 
chages,  and  of  open-work,  which  would  seem  possible  of 
execution  only  with  a  punching  machine  upon  one  of 
those  sheets  of  paper  which  cover  baptismal  sugar-plums, 
or  are  placed  upon  globes  of  lamps.  We  greatly  regret- 
ted not  having  twenty-five  thousand  francs  about  us  to 
buy  it,  since  that  was  all  that  was  demanded  for  it. 

Further  along,  in  ascending,  the  following  palaces 
are  found :  Corner  dclla  Cd  Grande,  which  dates  from 
1532,  one  of  the  best  of  Sansovino's ;  Grassi,  to-day  the 
Hotel  de  I'Empereur,  the  marble  staircase  of  which  is 
adorned  with  beautiful  orange-trees  in  pots;  Corner 
Spinelli  Grimani,  the  robust  and  powerful  architecture 
of  Sammichelli,  the  basement  of  which  is  surrounded  by 
a  double  fretwork  of  fine  effect,  and  which  is  used  to- 
day as  the  Post  Ofiice ;  Farsetti,  with  columned  peri- 
style, and  a  long  gallery  of  columnettes,  taking  up  the 
whole  fa9ade,  in  which  is  domiciled  the  municipal  gov- 
ernment. 

We  might  say,  as  Ruy-Gomez  da  Silva  said  to  Charles 
V  in  the  play  of  Hernani,  when  he  is  showing  the  por- 
traits of  his  ancestors  :  "  J 'en  passe,  et  dcs  meilleurs.'' 
Nevertheless,  we  will  ask  favor  for  the  Loredan  Pal- 

[     149     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

ace  and  the  ancient  abode  of  Enrico  Dandolo,  the  con- 
queror of  Constantinople.  Between  these  palaces  there 
are  some  houses  of  equal  worth,  and  whose  chimney-tops, 
in  the  style  of  turbans,  small  towers,  and  vases  of  flow- 
ers, break  very  appropriately  the  great  lines  of  archi- 
tecture. 

Sometimes  a  landing-place,  or  a  piazetta,  like  the 
Campo  San  Vitalc  for  example,  which  faces  the  Acad- 
emy, pleasantly  interrupts  this  long  succession  of  mon- 
uments. 

This  Campo,  bordered  by  houses  coated  with  a  gay 
and  lively  red,  makes  a  most  happy  contrast  with  the 
garlands  of  vine-branches  on  the  trellis  of  a  wine-shop ; 
this  dash  of  red,  in  the  long  row  of  fa9ades  more  or  less 
embrowned  by  time,  rests  and  charms  the  eye.  Some 
painter  is  always  to  be  found  established  there,  his  palette 
on  his  thumb  and  his  box  on  his  knees.  The  gondoliers 
and  pretty  girls  whom  the  presence  of  these  fellows  al- 
ways attracts,  pose  naturally  and  become  models  after 
having  been  admirers. 

The  Rialto,  which  is  the  most  beautiful  bridge  in 
Venice,  with  a  very  grandiose  and  monumental  air,  be- 
strides the  canal  by  a  single  span  with  a  powerful  and 
graceful  curve.  It  was  built  in  1691,  under  the  Doge- 
ship  of  Pasquale  Cigogna,  by  Antonio  da  Ponte,  and 
replaced  the  ancient  wooden  drawbridge  of  which  we 
have  spoken  in  connection  with  the  map  of  Albert 
Durer.  Two  rows  of  shops,  separated  in  the  middle  by 
a  portico  in  the  form  of  an  arcade  and  permitting  a 
glimpse  of  the  sky,  burden  the  sides  of  the  bridge, 
which  can  be  crossed  by  three  paths  ;  that  in  the  centre 
and  the  exterior  passageways  furnished  with  balustrades 
of  marble. 

Around  the  Bridge  of  the  Rialto,  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  spots  of  the  Grand  Canal,  are  gathered  the 
oldest  houses  in  Venice,  with  platformed  roofs,  on  which 

[     150    ] 


THE  GRAND  CANAL,    VENICE 

With  the  Rialto  Bridge 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

poles  are  planted  to  hang  banners ;  their  long  chimneys, 
their  bulging  balconies,  their  stairways  with  disjointed 
steps,  and  their  plaques  of  red  rough-coating,  the  fallen 
flakes  of  which  lay  bare  the  brick  walls  and  the  founda- 
tions made  green  by  contact  with  the  water.  There  is 
always  near  the  Rialto  a  tumult  of  boats  and  gondolas 
and  of  stagnant  islets  of  tied-up  craft  drying  their 
tawny  sails,  which  are  sometimes  traversed  by  a  large 
cross. 

Shylock,  that  Jew  so  hungiy  for  Christian  flesh,  had 
his  shop  on  the  Bridge  of  the  Rialto,  which  has  the  high 
honor  of  having  furnished  a  stage  decoration  for  Shake- 
speare. 

Below  and  beyond  the  Rialto  are  grouped  on  both 
banks  the  ancient  Fondaco  dei  Tedeschi,  upon  the  colored 
walls  of  which,  in  uncertain  tints,  may  be  divined  some 
frescoes  of  Titian  and  Tintoretto,  like  dreams  which 
come  only  to  vanish  ;  the  fish-market,  the  vegetable  mar- 
ket, and  the  old  and  new  buildings  of  Scarpagnino  and 
of  Sansovino,  almost  fallen  in  ruins,  in  which  are  in- 
stalled various  courts. 

These  structures,  reddish,  dilapidated,  frosted  with 
admirable  tones  by  old  age  and  neglect,  must  be  the 
delight  of  painters.  Under  their  arcades,  moreover, 
swarms  a  bustling  and  noisy  populace  who  ascend  and 
descend,  go  and  come,  sell  and  buy,  laugh  and  cry; 
there  fresh  tunny-fish  is  sold  in  red  slices,  and  oysters, 
crabs,  and  shrimps,  are  carried  in  basket  measures.  Un- 
der the  arch  of  the  bridge,  where  a  particularly  sonorous 
echo  always  resounds,  the  gondoliers,  waiting  for  a  job, 
sleep  sheltered  from  the  sun. 

Still  ascending,  the  Palace  Corner  dclla  Beginct  is  en- 
countered on  the  left,  so  named  on  account  of  the  Queen 
Cornaro,  whom  the  Parisians  know  through  Hal^vy's 
opera,  the  "  Queen  of  Cyprus,"  in  which  Madame  Stoltz 
had  so  beautiful  a  r81e.     We  do  not  remember  whether 

[     151     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

the  scenery  of  Messieurs  Sichan,  Dieterle,  and  Des- 
plechin  was  like  the  original :  it  might  have  been 
without  loss  of  anything,  for  the  architecture  of  Domen- 
ico  Rossi  is  of  a  lofty  elegance.  The  sumptuous  Pal- 
ace of  Queen  Cornaro  is  now  a  pawn-shop,  and  the 
humble  rags  of  misery  and  the  jewels  of  improvi- 
dence at  bay  come  together  under  the  rich  wainscoting 
which  prevents  it  from  falling  in  ruins,  for  nowadays  it 
is  not  sufficient  to  be  beautiful,  it  is  necessary  also  to 
be  useful. 

The  College  of  the  Armenians,  which  is  at  some  dis- 
tance from  these,  is  an  admirable  edifice  by  Baldassare 
de  Longhena,  of  a  rich,  solid  and  imposing  architecture. 
It  is  the  ancient  Palace  Pesaro. 

On  the  right  rises  the  Palace  della  Cd  d^Oro,  one  of 
the  most  charming  on  the  Grand  Canal.  It  belongs  to 
Mademoiselle  Taglioni,  who  has  restored  it  with  most 
intelligent  care.  It  is  all  embroidered,  fringed,  carved 
in  a  Greek,  Gothic,  barbaric  style,  so  fantastic,  so  light, 
so  aerial,  that  it  might  be  fancied  to  have  been  built  ex- 
pressly for  the  nest  of  a  sylph.  Mile.  Taglioni  has  pity 
for  these  poor,  abandoned  palaces.  She  has  several  of 
them  en  jjension,  which  she  maintains  out  of  pure  com- 
miseration for  their  beauty ;  we  were  told  of  three  or 
four  upon  which  she  has  bestowed  this  charity  of  repair. 

Look  at  those  mooring  posts,  strewn  with  golden 
fleur-de-lis ;  they  tell  you  that  the  ancient  palace  Ven- 
dramin  Calergi  has  become  a  quasi-royal  habitation. 
It  is  the  dwelling  of  Her  Serene  Highness,  the  Duchess 
de  Berry,  and  she  is  certainly  better  housed  than  at  the 
Pavilion  Marsan ;  for  this  palace,  the  finest  in  Venice, 
is  a  masterpiece  of  architecture,  and  the  sculptures  are 
of  a  marvelous  delicacy.  There  could  be  nothing  pret- 
tier than  the  groups  of  children  which  support  the 
shields  on  the  arches  of  the  windows.  The  interior  is 
full  of  precious  marbles ;  especially  admirable  are  two 
[     152     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

columns  of  porphyry  of  so  rare  a  beauty  that  their  value 
would  pay  for  the  palace- 

Although  we  have  been  quite  prolix,  we  have  not  said 
all.  We  notice  that  we  have  not  mentioned  the  Mo- 
cenigo  Palace,  where  the  great  Byron  lived ;  our  gon- 
dola has  grazed  the  marble  stairway  where,  with  flying 
hair,  her  feet  in  the  water,  through  the  rain  and  tem- 
pest, the  daughter  of  the  people,  mistress  of  a  lord, 
greeted  him  upon  his  return  with  these  tender  words : 
"  Great  dog  of  the  Madonna,  is  this  the  sort  of  weather 
to  go  to  the  Lido  ?  "  The  Barbarigo  Palace  also  deserves 
mention.  We  did  not  see  the  twenty-two  Titiaus  which 
it  contains,  and  which  the  consul  of  Russia  keeps  under 
seal,  having  bought  them  for  his  master ;  but  it  contains 
other  fine  paintings,  and  the  cradle  all  sculptured  and 
gilded,  destined  for  the  heir  of  a  noble  family,  a  cradle  of 
which  a  tomb  could  be  made,  for  the  Barbarigo  are  extinct 
like  the  majority  of  the  ancient  Venetian  families.  Of 
nine  hundred  patrician  families  inscribed  in  the  book  of 
gold,  scarcely  fifty  remain  to-day. 

The  ancient  caravansary  of  the  Turks,  so  populated 
in  the  days  when  Venice  controlled  all  the  commerce 
of  the  Orient  and  India,  presents  now  two  stories  of 
Arab  arcades  fallen  in  or  obstructed  by  the  huts  which 
have  sprung  up  there  like  unwholesome  mushrooms. 

At  about  the  point  where  the  Canareggio  branches 
off,  some  traces  of  the  siege  and  bombardment  by  the 
Austrians  are  to  be  seen ;  some  projectiles  reached  as 
far  as  the  Labbia  Palace,  which  was  burned,  and  fur- 
rowed the  unfinished  faQade  of  San  Geremia.  Of  a 
ruined  building,  strange  caprice  of  the  bullets  in  their 
intelligent  work  of  destruction,  there  remains  apparently 
nothing  more  than  a  skull  of  marble  sculptured  at  the 
summit  of  a  wall,  as  if  Death,  in  a  sort  of  respectful 
dismay,  had  recoiled  before  its  blasonry. 

In  going  to  a  distance  from  the  heart  of  the  city,  life 
[     153     ] 


JOTJKNEYS      IN     ITALY 

is  extinct.  Many  windows  are  closed  or  barred  with 
boards  ;  but  this  sadness  has  its  beauty :  it  is  more  j)er- 
ceptible  to  the  soul  than  to  the  eyes,  regaled  without 
cessation  by  the  most  unforeseen  accidents  of  light  and 
shade,  by  buildings  so  varied  that  even  their  dilapidation 
only  renders  them  more  picturesque,  by  the  perpetual 
movement  of  the  waters,  and  that  blue  and  rose  tint 
which  composes  the  atmosphere  of  Venice. 


[     154     ] 


I'I'ffl'I'fffl'fffffffffffffffffftftf 


CHAPTER    XII 
LIFE    IN    VENICE 


BACK  of  monumental  Venice,  a  sort  of  decoration 
of  a  fairy  opera,  —  wluch  enchains  the  attention 
and  by  which  the  dazzled  traveler  is  ordinarily  ar- 
rested, —  exists  another  more  familiar,  more  intimate, 
and  not  less  picturesque  Venice,  although  little  loiown : 
it  is  that  of  which  we  are  about  to  speak. 

Before  we  had  been  long  in  Venice,  we  left  the  Hotel 
de  I'Europe,  which  occupies  the  ancient  Palace  of  Gius- 
tiniani,  at  the  entrance  to  the  Grand  Canal,  in  order  to 
install  ourselves  at  the  corner  of  the  Campo  San  Mose, 
at  the  house  of  Signor  Tramontini,  in  a  lodging  left  va- 
cant by  a  Russian  prince.  Let  not  these  words,  Russian 
2Jrince,  awaken  ideas  of  magnificence  unbecoming  for  a 
poor  poet  like  ourselves ;  at  Venice  one  can  enjoy  the 
luxury  of  a  palace  for  a  moderate  price.  A  marvel  of  a 
palace,  bearing  the  stamp  of  Sansovino  or  Scamozzi,  may 
be  rented  for  less  than  the  cost  of  a  garret  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Paix,  and  our  apartments  were  part  of  a  simj^le  house, 
rough-coated  in  rose  color,  like  most  of  the  houses  in 
Venice.  This  lodging  offered  the  prince  the  advantage 
of  looking  out,  through  the  windows  on  the  side  facing 
the  Place,  upon  the  shop  of  a  French  baker,  who,  how- 
ever little  gold  or  silver  he  possessed,  had  at  least  a 
daughter  of  striking  beauty.  The  quantities  of  light 
bread  and  of  unleavened  bread  bought  by  the  Russian 
prince  in  the  interests  of  passion  would  have  sufficed  to 
feed  a  number  of  families  ;  but  it  accomphshed  nothing. 
The  young  bakeress  was  guarded  by  maternal  vigilance 
with  greater  care  than  the  apples  of  gold  in  the  garden 
of  the  Hesperides  by  the  mythological  dragon,  and  the 

[     155     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

disappointed  INIuscovite  was  compelled  to  go  to  extin- 
guish the  fire  of  his  ardor  in  his  natal  snowbanks.  This 
beautiful  girl  remained  for  us  in  a  state  of  mystery,  for 
we  did  not  see  her  once  during  a  sojourn  in  the  house  of 
several  weeks.  Every  tenant  of  this  lodging  was  by  the 
simple  fact  of  his  tenancy  suspected  of  libertinism. 

It  is  by  no  means  a  desire  to  exploit  the  nook  in 
which  we  passed  so  happy  a  month  that  impels  us  to 
stop  here  for  some  details.  We  •  are  not  among  those 
whose  joy  or  sadness  is  a  matter  of  importance  to  the 
world  at  large,  and  if  we  sometimes  make  use  of  our 
o^vn  personality  in  these  notes  of  travel,  it  is  only  as  a 
means  of  transition  and  to  escape  the  embarrassment  of 
forms  :  and  then  it  is  not  without  interest  to  mingle  the 
real  Venice  with  the  Venice  of  our  dreams. 

In  the  midst  of  our  search  for  an  apartment,  we  were 
accosted  by  a  Brescian  adventurer,  a  young  man  of 
pleasant  countenance  who  called  himseK  a  student  and  a 
painter,  and  profited  by  our  ignorance  of  localities  and 
of  the  Venetian  dialect  to  the  extent  of  making  himself 
necessary  to  us  and  slipping  into  an  intimacy  with  us ; 
since  some  pieces  of  gold  which  jingled  in  our  pockets 
make  us  seem  grand  signors  to  his  eyes  as  compared  with 
his  personal  poverty.  He  conducted  us  to  a  number  of 
dirty  lodgings,  each  one  more  horrible  than  the  other, 
and  in  comparison  with  which  the  little  room  of  Consuelo, 
in  the  Corte-Minelli,  would  have  been  a  paradise.  He  was 
astonished  to  find  us  so  difficult  to  please,  and  conceived 
still  more  magnificent  ideas  as  to  our  station.  In  order 
to  gain  our  good  will  and  to  assure  himself  of  patrons  of 
such  importance,  he  made  us  a  present  of  one  of  those 
frail  bouquets,  mounted  on  a  stafl:  and  surrounded  by  a 
card,  which  are  distributed  in  Venice  for  a  small  piece 
of  copper.  He  seemed  to  base  great  hopes  upon  the  in- 
genious delicacy  of  this  treat,  hopes  which  were  decep- 
tive, and  to  the  failure  of  which  he  resigned  himself 
[      15G     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

with  great  difficulty.  Ices  and  coffee  did  not  seem  to 
him  at  all  a  sufficient  compensation  for  his  bouquet, 
and  he  complained  with  such  bitterness  of  the  consider- 
able expense  to  which  the  generosity  of  his  too  loyal 
heart  had  subjected  him  in  the  company  of  noble  for- 
eigners that  we  felt  obliged  to  offer  him  a  half-dozen 
"  Zwantzigs,"  which  he  grumblinglj^  accepted  with 
all  the  signs  of  wounded  pride  at  receiving  so  little. 
Our  lodging  had  a  water-gate  and  a  land-gate  opening 
upon  a  canal  and  on  a  Place,  hke  most  of  the  houses  in 
Venice.  It  was  composed  of  a  very  decent  bed-chamber 
and  a  quite  large  sitting-room,  separated  by  an  entrance 
chamber  which  opened  on  to  a  balcony  with  three  win- 
dows which  we  garnished  with  flowers  and  where  we 
passed  the  greater  part  of  our  time  dreaming  and  look- 
ing out,  smoking  cigarettes  ;  this  arrangement  of  rooms 
is  found  almost  everywhere,  in  the  palaces  as  well  as  in 
more  humble  habitations.  The  balcony  is  the  central 
point  of  the  edifice.  These  balconies  occupy  a  middle 
place  between  the  Spanish  mirador  and  the  Arabian 
moucharahy.  A  sofa,  chairs  of  horse-hair,  a  bed  envel- 
oped by  a  mosquito  net,  a  table,  and  a  dressing-table 
completed  the  furniture.  The  inlaid  flooring  was  re- 
placed by  a  species  of  diapered  stucco  of  different  colors, 
resembling  an  immense  slice  of  "  galantine "  (boned 
turkey  with  truffles).  Nothing  was  wanting,  not  even 
the  truffles  simulated  by  the  black  pebbles.  This  char- 
cuterie  paves  all  the  apartments  of  Venice.  It  is  cooHng 
to  the  feet  and  moreover  is  easy  to  keep  clean.  The 
walls,  following  the  usage  in  Italy,  were  colored  in  a 
neutral  tint  and  adorned  with  gay  lithographs,  illumi- 
nated in  the  style  of  Compte-Cahx,  which  was,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  flattering  to  French  art,  but  regulated  from 
the  point  of  view  of  local  color ;  fortunately  a  Panagia, 
painted  by  the  New  Byzantines  of  Mount  Athos,  with  a 
rigidity  and  hierarchical  barbarity  worthy  of  the  ninth 

[     157     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN      ITALY 

century,  relieved  the  modern  vulgarity  of  these  images 
of  adventure. 

This  Madonna  with  gilded  monogram  came  from  our 
hostess,  an  amiable  Greek  woman  married  at  Venice, 
who  lived  in  the  apartment  above  ours.  A  sonnet 
printed  on  satin  and  appropriately  framed,  told,  with 
strong  allusions  di'awn  from  mythology,  how  the  Ionian 
waves  had  yielded  their  Venus  to  the  Adriatic  waves, 
and  how  a  virtuous  Helen  had  followed  beyond  the  sea 
an  honest  Paris.  Helen  was,  in  fact,  the  name  of  the 
young  woman,  but  the  resemblance  did  not  extend  to 
her  husband,  who  was  called  Joseph  Tramontine. 

The  Signora  Elena  had  passed  through  four  church- 
ings,  and  still  preserved  the  pallidness  of  hands  and  of 
countenance  which  is  the  recompense  of  young  mothers. 
Married  at  a  proper  age,  she  had  already  had  several 
avocats.  Let  not  this  expression  arouse  any  suspicions 
as  to  the  modesty  of  this  charming  woman.  Although 
the  Venetians  are  fairly  long-lived  people,  the  children 
are  badly  reared  and  many  of  them  die  in  their  early 
years.  These  little  innocents  go  straight  to  Heaven 
and  plead  the  cause  of  their  parents  before  the  tribunal 
of  God.  Hence  the  name  avocats.  Moreover,  on  ac- 
count of  this  behef,  the  parents  are  easily  consoled  for 
their  loss. 

The  remainder  of  the  household  consisted  of  a  young 
nm-se,  who  came  from  the  Frioulian  Alps,  a  peasant  girl 
with  hollow  cheeks,  a  big,  astonished  and  savage  eye, 
who  bounded  from  step  to  step  on  the  staircase,  with 
her  baby  in  her  arms,  like  a  frightened  goat  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock ;  and  an  old  servant  called  Lucia,  a 
poetic  name,  little  in  accord  with  her  hair  bristling  like 
asparagus  stalks,  her  rank  and  yellow  skin,  squinting 
eyes,  thick-lipped  mouth,  and  shrill  voice. 

As  we  have  said  already,  our  lodging  furnished  a  view 
of  the  Place  and  of  the  Canal.     Why  should  not  a  de- 

[     158     ] 


JOUKNEYS     IN      ITALY 

scription  of  this  double  view  have  the  same  interest  as 
a  water-color  of  Joyant,  or  William  Wyld,  who  have 
made  a  multitude  of  little  familiar  sketches  of  narrow 
lanes,  of  nooks,  of  canals,  of  landing-places  picturesquely 
encumbered?  Is  the  pen  less  skilful  than  the  pencil? 
Let  us  try. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  Place,  or,  as  it  is  called,  the 
Cayyipo,  rises  the  Church  of  San  Mose,  with  its  faQades 
of  flamboyant  rococo,  almost  sullen  in  its  violent  ex- 
aggeration. It  is  not  that  heavy,  flabby  rococo,  oldish 
and  worn  out,  to  which  we  are  accustomed  in  France, 
but  a  robust  bad  style,  full  of  force,  of  exuberance,  of 
invention,  and  of  caprice ;  the  volutes  are  distorted  like 
flourishes  of  stone,  the  corbels  make  sudden  leaps,  the 
architraves  are  interrupted  by  deep  notches,  the  sculp- 
tured allegories  lean  on  the  arch  of  the  tympan  in  im- 
possible and  ]\Iichael  Angelo-like  attitudes.  Statues  with 
swelling  costumes  and  waving  draperies  assume,  in 
their  niches,  the  attitude  of  the  captain  or  the  dancing- 
master.  The  bust  of  the  founder,  at  the  end  of  the 
pyramidion  which  supports  him,  has  the  air,  so  mous- 
tached  and  formidable  is  he,  of  the  portrait  of  Don 
Spavento.  Oh  well !  these  endives  tufted  like  cabbages, 
these  columns  with  bracelets,  cartouches  like  napkins, 
these  uncouth  figures,  this  overloading  of  extravagant 
ornamentation,  produce  a  rich  effect,  grandiose  in  spite 
of  good  taste  having  been  violated  in  every  detail,  but 
violated  by  a  vigorous  imagination.  Vignole  would 
blame  the  design  of  this  fantastic  doorway.  We  absolve 
him  fully.  The  weird  architect  is  called  Alexander  Tre- 
mignon. 

This  truculent  facade  is  connected  by  a  flymg  bridge 
with  its  steeple,  a  diminutive  copy  of  the  Campanile  of 
the  Place  of  Saint  Mark.  In  Italy,  the  architects  have 
always  been  embarrassed  by  bells ;  they  do  not  know 
how  or  are   unwilhng   to   attach   them   to   the  edifice. 

[     159     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

One  might  say  that,  prejudiced  in  spite  of  themselves  in 
favor  of  pagan  temples,  they  regard  the  Catholic  bell- 
turrets  as  a  deformed  superfluity,  as  a  barbaric  excres- 
cence ;  they  make  of  them  only  an  isolated  tower,  a  sort 
of  belfry,  and  seem  to  be  ignorant  of  the  magnificent 
effects  which  the  religious  architecture  of  the  North  has 
dra^vn  from  them.  Let  this  be  said  in  passing.  We 
shall  have  to  return  to  this  matter  more  than  once. 

The  entrance  to  San  Mose  is  covered  with  a  thick 
leather  portiere,  which,  on  being  raised,  affords  a  vague 
glimpse,  in  a  transparent  shadow,  of  splendors  of  gilding, 
and  the  glimmer  of  candles,  and  from  which  come  forth 
tepid  whiffs  of  incense,  mingled  with  sounds  of  organ 
and  of  prayers. 

The  turret  bell  has  no  sinecure,  —  it  rings  all  day  long. 
In  the  morning  it  is  the  Angelus,  then  the  Mass,  the 
Vespers,  then  the  evening  Salute.  Its  tongues  of  iron 
are  scarcely  still  a  few  moments  at  a  time.  Nothing 
tires  its  lungs  of  bronze.  Close  at  hand,  separated  by  a 
lane  as  narrow  as  the  most  strangulated  Callejon  of 
Grenada  or  of  Constantinople,  and  which  leads  to  the 
landing-place  of  the  Grand  Canal,  the  presbytery  shel- 
ters itself  in  the  shadow  of  the  church.  A  sombre 
facade,  veneered  with  a  faded  red,  pierced  by  gloomy 
windows  with  complicated  gratings,  and  which  would  be 
a  blot  on  this  clear  Venetian  picture,  were  it  not  that 
masses  of  plants  enlivened  it  a  little  with  their  tender 
green,  and  that  a  charming  Madonna,  surmounting  a 
box  for  the  poor,  smiles  between  two  lamps. 

The  three  or  four  houses  which  face  it  number  among 
them  the  house  of  the  baker  besieged  by  the  Russian 
prince;  that  of  a  flower-seller,  whose  front,  garnished  with 
small  pots,  exposes  for  sale  tulips  in  bulbs  or  in  full  bloom, 
and  rare  plants,  scaffolded  with  sticks  and  flanked  by 
scientific  labels ;  a  shop  of  various  commodities  forming 
the  corner  of  the  side  of  the  Canal,  the  whole  coated 

[     ICO     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

with  lime,  variegated  by  green  window  shutters,  streaked 
with  balconies,  and  surmounted  by  chimneys  with  cap- 
itals widened  into  turbans,  which  change  the  roofs  of 
Venice  into  Turkish  cemeteries. 

At  one  of  these  balconies  appeared  quite  often  a  pretty 
signora  (in  so  far  as  the  distance  would  permit  her  to  be 
distinguished),  almost  always  clad  in  black,  and  playing 
with  a  fan  with  a  dexterity  wholly  Spanish.  It  seemed 
to  us  that  we  had  already  seen  her  somewhere.  In  think- 
ing of  her,  we  found  that  it  was  in  the  Memoirs  of  Charles 
Gozzi. 

She  recalled  the  type  of  the  young  girl  by  the  window, 
of  his  romance.  Perhaps  it  might  not  have  been  impos- 
sible to  enter  upon  an  amour  en  gondole,  with  serenades, 
treats,  and  bonbons,  according  to  the  ancient  Venetian 
fashion.  But  the  traveler  is  a  bird  of  passage,  who  has 
no  time  for  love.  On  the  open  face  of  the  Place,  by 
the  side  of  the  landing-place,  there  is  a  bridge  of  white 
marble  of  a  single  arch,  which  bestrides  the  Canal,  and 
puts  the  Campo  in  communication  with  the  lane  on  the 
opposite  bank  leading  to  the  Place  of  Saint  Maurice. 

At  one  end,  the  Canal  sinks  down  in  one  of  those  per- 
spectives which  the  views  of  Venice  have  presented  to 
all  the  world ;  lofty  houses,  rose  colored  at  the  top,  green 
at  the  bottom,  with  head  in  the  sun,  and  foot  in  the 
water ;  lancet  windows  jostling  the  square,  modern  bay  ; 
chimneys  rounded  off  with  flower-pots ;  long  striped 
awnings  hanging  from  the  balconies ;  tiles  of  vermilion 
or  bistre ;  pinnacles  crowned  with  statues,  detaching 
themselves  in  white  upon  the  azure  of  the  sky ;  mooring 
posts  illumined  with  vivid  colors ;  waters  shimmering  in 
the  shade ;  boats,  stationary  or  grazing  with  their  black 
sides  the  marble  of  the  stairways  with  unexpected  effects 
of  light  or  shade. 

This  water-color,  large  as  natiu*e,  was  hung  up  in 
front  of  our  window  on  the  side  toward  the  water.     At 

[      IGl      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

the  other  end  the  Canal,  again  barred  by  a  bridge, 
emptied  itself  into  the  Canalazzo  and  allowed  a  glimpse 
of  a  portion  of  the  entrance  wall  of  the  Customhouse 
and  the  bronze  Fortune  turning  toward  the  wind  on  lier 
golden  ball  as  well  as  the  concourse  of  craft  too  big  to 
be  able  to  penetrate  into  the  narrow  streets  of  water. 

Facing  us  the  Hotel  of  the  Golden  Star  is  seen,  which 
has  nothing  remarkable  about  it  except  a  terrace  festooned 
with  vines,  and  of  which  we  could  not  speak  without  men- 
tioning a  characteristic  of  its  sign-board,  originally  writ- 
ten in  three  languages  —  Italian,  French  and  German. 
The  Teutonic  lettering,  doubtless  effaced  during  the  siege 
of  Venice,  may  be  deciphered  vaguely  under  the  paint 
and  has  not  been  restored  through  patriotic  motives. 
This  united  protest  against  the  foreign  yoke  is  met  with 
everywhere. 

Seated  on  our  balcony  and  exhaling  the  light  fumes 
of  the  tobacco  of  the  Levant,  we  are  going  to  outline  a 
sketch  of  Venetian  life.  It  is  still  morning ;  the  cannon 
of  the  frigate  which  opens  the  port  sends  forth  its 
white  smoke  upon  the  lagune  ;  the  Angelic  salutation 
vibrates  from  the  thousand  bell-turrets  of  the  city.  Pa- 
trician and  bourgeois  Venetians  are  still  fast  asleep  ;  but 
the  poor  devils  who  make  their  beds  on  the  steps  of  the 
stairways,  on  the  palace  steps  or  the  bases  of  the 
columns,  have  already  quitted  their  couches  and  shaken 
their  tatters  damp  with  the  dew.  The  gondoliers  of  the 
landing  wash  the  sides  of  their  gondolas,  brush  the 
cloth  of  the  felce,  polish  the  iron  of  their  prows,  shake  out 
the  Persian  rug  which  adorns  the  bottom  of  the  boats, 
puff  out  the  cushions  of  black  leather  and  put  every- 
thing in  order  aboard  their  craft  to  be  ready  for  the 
call  to  business. 

The  heavy  barges  which  bring  provisions  to  the  city 
are  beginning  to  arrive  from  Mestre,  from  Fusine,  from 
Zuecca,  a  kind  of  maritime  suburb,  bordered  by  buildings 
[     162     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

on  one  side  and  by  gardens  on  the  other ;  from  Chiog- 
gia,  from  Torcello,  and  from  other  places  on  the  main- 
land or  from  the  islands. 

These  barges,  laden  with  green  vegetables,  grapes, 
and  peaches,  leave  behind  them  a  pleasant  odor  of 
vegetation  which  contrasts  with  the  acrid  smell  of  the 
vessels  loaded  with  mackerel,  mullet,  oysters,  crabs, 
shell-fish,  and  other  "  sea  fruits,"  to  use  the  picturesque 
Venetian  term. 

Others  carrying  wood  and  charcoal  stop  at  the  water- 
gates  in  order  to  discharge  their  merchandise  and  pur- 
sue their  peaceful  course.  The  wine  arrives  not  in  casks 
as  with  us,  not  in  leathern  bottles  of  buckskin  as  in 
Spain,  but  in  great  open  vats  which  it  colors  with  its 
purple  more  sombre  than  the  juice  of  the  mulberry. 
The  epithet  black,  which  Homer  never  failed  to  apply 
to  wine,  may  be  fittingly  applied  to  these  products  of 
the  vineyards  of  Friulia  and  Istria. 

The  water  to  fill  the  cisterns  is  brought  in  the  same 
manner ;  for  Venice,  in  spite  of  its  aquatic  situation, 
might  die  of  thirst  like  Tantalus,  not  possessing  a  single 
spring.  In  other  days  this  water  was  sought  at  Fusine 
on  the  Canal  dc  la  Brent  a.  Now  the  artesian  wells, 
sunk  fortunately  by  M.  Degous^e,  supply  the  majority 
of  the  cisterns.  There  is  scarcely  a  Campo  which  does 
not  possess  one.  The  mouth  of  these  reservoirs,  sur- 
rounded with  a  curb  like  that  of  a  well,  has  furnished 
the  most  delightful  motifs  to  the  fantasy  of  the  Venetian 
architects  and  sculptors  :  sometimes  they  make  a  Corin- 
thian capital  of  it,  hoUowed  out  in  the  middle ;  some- 
times the  jaws  of  a  monster ;  at  other  times  they  roll 
around  this  drum  of  bronze,  of  marble,  or  of  stone,  bac- 
chanals of  children,  garlands  of  flowers  or  of  fruit  un- 
happily too  frequently  worn  out  by  the  friction  of  the 
ropes  and  of  the  buckets  of  copper.  These  cisterns, 
filled  with  gravel  by  which  the  water  is  kept  fresh,  give 
[    im    ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

a  peculiar  character  to  the  localities  ;  they  open  at  cer- 
tain hours  and  the  women  come  to  draw  there,  like  the 
Greek  slaves  at  the  ancient  fountains. 

Behold !  here  is  a  gondola  which  hooks  on  to  another. 
One  might  call  them,  on  seeing  them  bite  with  their  iron 
axe,  two  spiteful  swans  plucking  each  other's  feathers 
with  their  beaks.  One  of  the  gondoliers  did  not  hear 
or  heard  too  late  the  cry  of  warning,  a  sort  of  wail  in 
an  unknown  jargon. 

The  dispute  begins  and  the  two  champions  bawl  at 
each  other  hke  Homeric  heroes  before  the  battle.  Stand- 
ing upright  on  the  poop  they  brandished  their  oars. 
One  might  beheve  they  were  about  to  kill  each  other. 
Do  not  fear,  there  is  more  noise  than  malice.  The  oaths 
"  Body  of  Bacchus  !  "  "  Blood  of  Diana  !  "  are  hurled  from 
one  side  to  the  other,  but  presently  mythological  oaths  do 
not  suffice.  The  curses  and  blasphemies  grow,  always  in- 
creasing in  intensity.  "  Lame  crab,"  "sea  lion,"  "dog," 
"  son  of  a  cow,"  "  ass,"  "  son  of  a  sow,"  "  assassin,"  "  ruf- 
fian," "spy," — such  are  the  amiable  epithets  that  they 
lavish  upon  one  another.  Associating  Heaven  with  their 
quarrel,  they  curse  their  respective  saints.  "  The  Ma- 
donna of  thy  landing  is  a  street-walker  who  is  not  worth 
two  candles."  "  Thy  Saint  is  a  rascal  who  does  not  know 
how  to  make  a  decent  miracle,"  responds  the  other.  We 
have  softened  the  expressions. 

It  is  to  be  remarked  that  the  vociferations  become  more 
outrageous  as  the  distance  between  the  boats  is  length- 
ened, and  the  participants  in  this  furious  dialogue  realize 
themselves  to  be  out  of  reach  of  each  other.  Presently, 
only  hoarse  croakings  are  heard,  which  lose  themselves 
in  the  distance. 

Here  passes  an  official  gondola  with  the  Austrian  ban- 
ner at  the  stern,  taking  to  some  inspection  a  cold  and 
stiff  functionary,  his  breast  bedizened  with  decorations ; 
this  other  one  carries  some  English  people,  phlegmatic 
[     16i     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

tourists ;  that  one  there,  slender  as  a  skate,  veers  off, 
mysterious  and  discreet,  more  towards  the  open.  Its 
lowered  felce,  its  raised  blinds,  hide  two  lovers  who  are 
going  to  breakfast  at  the  Point  of  Quintavalle  ;  that  one, 
heavier  and  larger,  is  cariying  off,  under  its  white-and 
blue-striped  awning,  an  honest  family  going  to  take  the 
sea  baths  at  the  Lido,  on  that  shore  whose  fine  sand 
still  preserves  the  footprints  of  the  horses  of  Lord  Byron. 

But  the  Church  is  opening.  Out  of  it  comes  forth  a 
red  cortege,  bearing  a  red  bier  which  is  deposited  in  a 
red  gondola.  Here  mourning  is  indicated  by  crimson.  It 
is  a  corpse  which  is  starting  for  the  cemetery,  situated  on 
an  island  on  the  way  to  Murano.  The  priests,  the 
bearers,  the  candlesticks,  and  the  ornaments  of  the 
Church  occupy  the  boat  which  precedes.  Go  to  sleep, 
poor  corpse,  under  the  sand  impregnated  with  the  sea 
salt,  in  the  shade  of  an  iron  cross  which  the  wing  of  the 
gull  will  skim  over!  For  the  bones  of  a  Venetian,  the 
earth  of  the  mainland  would  be  too  heavy  a  covering. 

While  we  are  on  this  funereal  subject,  let  us  say  that 
in  Venice,  when  any  one  dies,  there  is  stuck  up  on  his 
house  and  on  those  in  the  neighboring  streets,  a  printed 
notice  which  gives  his  name,  age,  place  of  birth,  the 
malady  to  which  he  succumbed,  affirms  that  he  has  re- 
ceived the  sacraments,  that  he  died  a  good  Christian, 
and  asks  for  him  the  prayers  of  the  faithful. 

Let  us  leave  these  melancholy  subjects  here.  The 
wake  of  the  red  bark  is  closed  over:  let  us  think  no 
more  about  it.  Let  us  forget  as  do  the  waves,  which 
preserve  no  trace  of  anything ;  it  is  of  life  and  not  of 
death  that  we  must  dream. 


[     165     ] 


fftttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt 

CHAPTER    XIII 
FAMILIAR    DETAILS 


ON  the  bridge  come  and  go  youiig  girls,  operatives, 
nursemaids  or  servants  in  chemisette  and  petticoat 
under  their  long  shawls  ;  on  their  necks  are  rolled 
up,  like  cables,  long  twists  of  that  reddish  blonde  hair  so 
dear  to  the  Venetian  painter.  I  salute  from  my  window 
these  models  of  Paul  Veronese,  "who  pass  by  without  im- 
agining that  they  posed  three  or  four  hundred  years 
ago  for  the  Marriage  of  Cana :  old  women  cowled  in  the 
national  halite,  hastening  to  arrive  in  time  for  mass,  the 
last  stroke  of  which  is  tolling  at  San  ]\Iose  ;  Hungarian 
soldiers,  with  blue  trousers,  with  black  half-boots,  with 
a  cloak  of  gray  ticking,  making  the  bridge  resound  under 
their  heavy  and  regular  tread,  carrying  to  some  barracks 
the  wood  with  which  to  cook  the  soup  or  victuals  of  the 
mess ;  some  ilhistrissimi,  old  ruined  nobles,  having  still 
a  grand  air  under  their  clean  but  threadbare  garments, 
betaking  themselves  to  Florian's,  the  place  of  reunion  for 
the  aristocracy,  that  excellent  cafe  for  which  Constanti- 
nople transmitted  the  recipe  to  Venice,  and  nowhere  is 
better  drink  to  be  had. 

However,  perhaps  these  apparitions  of  past  time  may 
excite  a  smile ;  but  the  populace  of  Venice  loves  its  old 
noblesse,  who  have  always  been  good  to  and  familiar 
with  it. 

Nothing  is  done  in  the  ordinary  way  in  this  fantastic 
city.  The  musical  instruments  of  the  streets,  instead  of 
traveling  on  the  hips  of  the  turner  of  the  handle,  are 
dragged  about  by  water.  The  organ  goes  in  a  gondola  : 
one  passed  just  now  under  our  balcony.  It  was  one  of 
those  great  pieces  of  mechanism  manufactured  at  Cre- 

[      IGO      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

mona,  the  native  place  of  the  good  violin.  The  play  of 
trumpets,  of  triangles,  and  of  tambourines  makes  a  com- 
plete orchestra  of  it,  to  the  sound  of  which  dance  a  bal- 
let of  mechanical  marionettes  enclosed  in  a  case.  More 
than  one  boat  turns  out  of  its  road  to  enjoy  the  melody 
longer,  and  the  musical  gondola  goes  forward  followed 
by  a  small  dillettante  flotilla  which  traverses  the  canals 
after  it. 

What  is  this  boat  which  now  passes  by,  having  fas- 
tened to  its  sides  a  kind  of  bluish  monster  which  pad- 
dles, splashes,  and  makes  the  water  fly  in  foam  ?  These 
are  fishermen  who  display  a  dolphin,  a  marine  curiosity 
captured  in  their  nets,  and  who  hold  out  their  hats  to  the 
windows  and  to  the  gondolas  in  order  to  collect  some 
pieces  of  silver. 

With  strong  ropes,  cleverly  knotted,  they  keep  the  ani- 
mal half  in  its  element,  half  in  the  air,  in  order  that  it  may 
be  seen.  It  scarcely  resembles  those  fantastic  monsters  to 
whom  heraldry  gives  the  name  of  dolphin,  a  chimera  which 
holds  a  middle  place  between  a  fish  and  an  ornament.  We 
did  not  find  in  that  big  bulging  head  terminating  in  a 
beak,  the  heraldic  fosses  and  the  scalloped  pinking  of 
armorial  bearings.  Arion,  with  his  lyre,  would  not  cut  a 
very  fine  figure  astride  a  monster  of  this  sort. 

Now  let  us  look  at  the  side  toward  the  Place.  The 
tableau  is  no  less  animated.  The  shop  of  the  frituricr^ 
whose  cabin  of  boards  and  canvas  is  established  at  the 
base  of  the  bridge,  is  open ;  the  stoves  are  in  full  activity 
and  in  the  air  the  odor  of  the  smoke  is  mingled  with  the 
somewhat  acrid  smell  of  boiling  oil.  Frying  holds  a 
prominent  place  in  Italian  life.  Sobriety  is  a  southern 
virtue  which  early  becomes  mixed  up  with  laziness,  and 
causes  little  cooking  to  be  done  in  the  houses.  Some 
send  to  these  kitchens  in  the 'open  air  for  pastry,  fritters, 
and  fried  fish,  while  others,  less  fastidious,  consume  them 
on  the  spot ! 

[      167     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

The  fritiiriei\  if  we  may  be  pardoned  for  introducing 
a  neologism  necessary  in  a  journey  through  Italy,  is  a 
great,  big,  fat-cheeked,  big-bellied  fellow,  a  sort  of  obese 
Hercules,  of  the  type  of  Palforio,  with  scarlet  cheeks, 
parrot  nose,  ears  adorned  with  rings,  shining  black  hair 
curled  in  little  ringlets,  like  the  wool  of  an  Astrachan 
lamb.  He  is  seated  hke  a  king  on  his  throne,  having  be- 
hind him  three  or  four  rows  of  shining  copper  dishes,  like 
the  ancient  shields  hanging  from  the  sides  of  the  triremes. 

The  vendor  of  pumpkins,  viands  of  which  the  Vene- 
tians are  epicures,  also  offers  for  sale  his  commodity, 
which  looks  like  cakes  of  yellow  wax,  and  which  he  sells 
in  slices,  A  young  girl  at  a  window  makes  a  sign  to  the 
seller  and  lets  down,  at  the  end  of  a  cord,  a  basket  in 
which  she  hauls  up  a  piece  proportioned  in  size  to  the 
amount  of  money  she  has  sent  down.  This  convenient 
method  of  supplying  oneself  with  provisions  is  well  suited 
to  the  Venetian  easj^-going  mode  of  life. 

A  group  is  formed  in  the  middle  of  the  Campo,  a 
group  presently  augmented  by  all  the  passers  by  and  the 
idlers  discharged  by  the  bridge,  and  they  betake  them- 
selves, by  way  of  the  lane  running  past  the  church,  to 
the  Frezzaria  or  the  Place  of  Saint  Mark,  the  two  lo- 
calities most  frequented  in  Venice. 

A  circle  left  open  in  the  centre  of  the  crowd  permits 
us  to  see  a  poor  devil,  very  dilapidated,  wearing  a  melan- 
choly hat,  a  pitiful  coat,  and  ragged  trousers ;  he  has  at 
his  side  an  old  woman,  a  wretched  companion,  half  witch 
and  half  Fate,  in  a  costume  equally  miserable  with  that 
of  the  man.  A  covered  basket  is  placed  on  the  ground 
in  front  of  them.  A  dog,  unkempt,  dirty,  emaciated, 
but  having  the  air  of  intelligence  of  an  animal  well  versed 
in  all  sorts  of  exercises,  watches  the  old  couple  with  that 
human  eye  which  the  dog  assumes  in  the  presence  of  his 
master;  he  seems  to  await  a  sign,  a  command.  Is  this  a 
performance  of  wise  dogs  which  we  are  about  to  witness? 

[      168     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Yet  there  is  no  music,  and  the  poor  beast  is  not  dressed 
like  a  marquis.  The  old  man  makes  a  gesture  of  com- 
mand. The  attentive  dog  precipitates  himself  upon  the 
basket,  one  of  the  covers  of  which  he  lifts  with  his 
teeth ;  he  waits  a  few  seconds,  then,  pushing  the  other 
hd  with  his  nose,  he  springs  back  triumphant,  holding  in 
his  mouth  a  little  piece  of  folded  paper  which  he  lays  at 
the  feet  of  the  old  woman  ;  he  repeats  this  performance 
several  times,  and  the  bystanders  snatch  away  the  billets 
drawn  from  the  basket. 

The  dog  is  drawing  the  numbers  for  a  lottery.  Those 
which  he  pulls  out  under  certain  conditions  ought  in- 
fallibly to  win  ;  the  players  of  both  sexes,  who  are  very 
numerous  in  Venice,  as  in  all  unfortunate  countries, 
where  the  hope  of  a  sudden  fortune  acquired  without 
work  acts  forcibly  upon  the  imagination,  have  great  con- 
fidence in  the  numbers  thus  fished  out  by  the  dog. 

Seeing  the  profound  misery  and  famished  counte- 
nances of  this  couple,  the  shrunken  anatomy  of  the  dog 
whose  numbers  ought  to  win  so  many  gold  pieces,  we 
asked  why  these  poor  devils  did  not  avail  themselves  to 
greater  advantage  of  the  means  of  making  a  fortune 
which  they  were  distributing  so  generously  to  others  for 
a  few  sous. 

This  simple  reflection  had  occurred  to  no  one.  Per- 
haps the  diviners  of  the  numbers  are  like  the  sorcerers 
who  cannot  foresee  the  future  for  themselves ;  clair- 
voyant as  to  others,  they  become  blind  when  they 
themselves  are  concerned ;  otherwise,  this  unhappy 
couple  should  have  been  millionaires  at  least. 

Venice  is  full  of  lottery  offices.  The  winning  numbers, 
written  on  cards  framed  in  flowers  and  ribbons,  in  fan- 
tastic figures  of  azure,  of  red,  and  of  gold,  excite  the 
curiosity  of  the  passing  throng.  In  the  evening  they  are 
brilliantly  illuminated  by  lamps  and  candles ;  the  favorite 
numbers,  the  number  which  infallibly  ought  to  come  forth, 

[     169     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

according  to  the  calculations  of  probability  dear  to  the 
patrons  of  the  lottery,  as  strong  in  this  matter  as  M. 
Poisson  of  the  Institute,  are  also  exposed  with  great  dis- 
play. Certain  players  who  are  determined  to  follow  these 
imaginary  martingales,  bu}^  them  at  any  price  and  recom- 
mence, in  spite  of  numerous  failures,  their  stakes  doubled 
or  tripled  according  to  mathematical  progression. 

In  France,  the  lottery  has  been  suppressed  as  immoral. 
Perhaps  it  is  more  humane  not  to  deprive  the  unfortu- 
nate of  hope  ;  why  give  the  poor  devils  the  certainty  of 
their  never  possessing  a  sou  ?  This  chimera  of  the  great 
stake,  this  paradise  of  the  four  and  five  winning  numbers 
has  given  patience  to  many  despairing  souls. 

Our  gondola  is  to  come  at  three  o'clock.  Antonio 
knocks  at  the  water-gate.  We  have  dismissed  the 
gondoliers  of  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe  and  hired  a  gondola 
by  the  month,  as  this  plan  is  less  expensive  and  more 
convenient.  Antonio  is  a  yomig  wag  of  fifteen  or  six- 
teen, very  alert,  very  sure-footed,  handling  his  oar  well, 
making  a  very  good  appearance  on  the  poop  of  the  boat, 
with  his  shaggy  cap  and  his  calico  jacket  of  Persian 
pattern.  He  has  only  one  fault :  he  is  too  much  taken  up 
with  the  ankles  of  the  pretty  women  getting  in  and  out 
of  the  gondolas.  The  other  day  a  little  slipper  of  gold 
encasing  a  stocking  of  embroidered  silk,  which  descended 
three  steps  of  rose-colored  marble,  nearly  caused  us  to  be 
capsized  by  our  inflammable  gondolier.  Aside  from  this 
he  was  very  well  behaved.  Cupid  saved  him  from  Bac- 
chus, as  the  classical  scholar  would  say. 

There  stands  at  the  end  of  the  bank  of  the  Canal  of 
the  Slaves,  beyond  the  Public  Gardens,  on  the  Pohit  of 
Quintavalle,  on  the  island  of  Saint  Peter,  the  house  of 
an  old  fisherman  named  Ser-Zuane,  celebrated  for  its 
fish  dinners,  like  the  Trafalgar  Hotel  in  London  or  the 
Ship  Tavern  at  Greenwich,  near  London,  or  like  la 
Rap^e  in  Paris. 

[     170     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

We  made  up  a  party  to  go  there  to  dinner,  and  mak- 
ing the  gondola  hold  a  little  to  the  offing,  we  lazily  en- 
joyed that  spectacle  of  which  the  eye  can  never  grow 
weary,  if  it  were  to  see  it  forever,  so  admirable,  so  fairy- 
like, and  so  ever  new  is  it. 

We  see  file  before  us  as  in  a  panoramic  band  between 
the  sky  and  the  water,  the  Zecca,  the  old  Library  of 
Sansovino,  the  columns  of  the  Piazetta,  the  Ducal  Palace, 
the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  the  Hotel  Danieli,  the  Quay  of  the 
Slaves,  all  bordered  by  shops  and  craft,  the  effect  of 
which  is  most  picturesque ;  then  the  fondainenta  Cd  di 
Dio  prolongs  the  line  of  the  quay  and  the  Public  Gardens, 
whose  verdure  and  freshness  give  the  lie  to  the  idea  that 
there  is  nothing  in  Venice  but  water,  marble,  and  brick. 

Having  passed  by  the  Gardens,  we  approached,  by  the 
Canal  of  San  Pietro  de  Castello,  the  abode  of  Ser-Zuane  : 
some  boats  drawn  up  on  the  sand,  some  nets  stretched 
out  in  the  sun,  a  few  planks  forming  a  rustic  landing-place 
in  front  of  the  house, —  very  simple  indeed,  and  one  which 
might  furnish  a  piquant  motif  for  a  maritime  sketch  to 
Eugene  Isabey. 

The  finest  room  in  the  house  had,  been  prepared  for 
us,  but  we  had  our  table  transported  to  the  bottom  of 
the  garden  under  an  arbor  shaded  by  vine  branches  and 
fig-leaves,  and  from  which  hung  some  gourds  which  had 
been  made  to  climb  up  it.  The  garden,  obstructed  by 
kitchen-garden  plants,  flowers,  and  weeds,  was  sufficient- 
ly ill-kept  to  be  charming.  This  free  and  luxui'iant  vege- 
tation was  more  pleasing  to  us  than  a  too  ornate  cul- 
tivation. 

Ser-Zuane,  although  a  Httle  put  out  by  the  fancy, 
always  incomprehensible  to  the  common  people,  of  pre- 
ferring a  wooden  bench,  a  table  on  trestles  under  a  mass 
of  verdure,  to  a  horse-hair  chair  and  mahogany  table  in  a 
room  with  mirrors  and  pictures  from  Saint  James  Street, 
did  not  display  toward  us  any  less  of  his  jovial  cordiality. 

[     171     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

The  wife  of  Ser-Zuane,  who  seemed  to  enjoy  a  des- 
potic authority  at  the  house,  is  a  big,  jolly,  gossiping 
woman,  with  high  color.  We  do  not  know  whether 
this  Philemon  and  this  Baucis  have  lived  happily  to- 
gether, but  they  have  a  lot  of  children,  like  the  princes 
and  princesses  of  the  fairy  tales.  Zuane  claims  that  he 
is  still  lusty  enough  to  add  to  this  numerous  line,  but 
his  wife  says  that  is  simple  nonsense. 

Each  country  has  its  local  dainties,  its  peculiar  dish. 
Marseilles  boasts  of  its  houille-a-haisse,  its  aioli  and  its 
clovisses ;  Venice  has  its  soupe  aux  pidocchi,  which  is 
better  than  its  somewhat  unsavory  name.  The  pidocchi 
(sea  lice)  are  a  species  of  mussels  which  are  gathered 
in  the  lagmies  and  even  in  the  canals.  The  best  are 
those  of  the  Arsenal. 

The  soup  aux  p>idocclii  is  a  classic  dish  at  Ser-Zuane's, 
and  all  travelers  fond  of  the  local  coloring  owe  it  to 
their  conscience  to  partake  of  it,  served  by  the  hand  of 
the  old  fisherman  of  the  Adriatic.  We  aver,  with  our 
hand  on  our  stomach,  that  we  prefer  the  potage  a  la 
bisque  and  turtle  soup ;  but  nevertheless,  the  mussel 
soup,  flavored  properly  with  spices  and  aromatic  herbs, 
has  its  charm,  especially  under  an  arbor  at  Quintavelle. 
The  remainder  of  the  dinner  was  made  up  of  oysters 
from  the  Arsenal,  with  fine  herbs,  sea-snails  of  a  rosy 
white,  soles,  and  mullets  from  Chioggia,  and  of  fried  sar- 
dines, the  whole  washed  down  with  wine  of  the  valley 
of  Policella  and  of  Piccolit  of  Conegliano,  with  a  dessert 
of  those  beautiful  and  golden  fruits  which  ripen  in  the 
sun  on  the  hills  of  Esta,  of  Monselice,  and  of  Montagnana. 
At  dessert,  while  we  were  drinking  a  bottle  of  the  wine 
of  Samos,  ripe  and  mellow  as  a  Homeric  wine,  the  old 
woman  came  to  talk  to  us  gaily  and  familiarly,  after  the 
fashion  of  an  ancient  hostess  ;  she  offered  a  huge  bouquet 
hastily  gathered  in  her  garden,  and  tied  with  a  bit  of 
rush,  to  the  wife  of  the  friend  who  was  sharing  our  re- 

[      172     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

past,  a  charming  woman  with  a  Spanish  face,  whose 
round  white  arm  issued  from  her  black  lace  sleeve. 
The  old  woman  exclaimed  at  the  whiteness  and  beauty 
of  this  arm,  which  she  kissed  several  times  with  that 
familiar  grace  of  the  lower  classes  of  Venice,  whose 
respectful  courtesy  contains  nothing  servile. 

The  bill  was  brought  to  us  made  out  on  the  bottom 
of  a  plate.  The  charge  was  quite  high,  but  we  had  en- 
joyed a  delicate  and  curious  dinner,  and,  in  the  quality 
of  a  foreigner,  and  considering  the  expense  of  translation, 
it  was  nothing  to  speak  of ;  we  did  not  make  the  slight- 
est remark,  and  the  fisherman  accompanied  us  to  the 
landing  where  our  gondolas  awaited  us. 

We  proceeded  to  make  a  tour  of  the  Public  Gardens 
near  at  hand  ;  there  is  a  grand  promenade  planted  with 
trees  outlining  an  obtuse  angle  upon  the  sea,  and  termi- 
nated at  its  point  by  a  hillock,  surmounted  by  a  caf^ 
frequented  by  drinkers  and  wandering  musicians.  The 
children  and  young  girls  amuse  themselves  by  rolling 
down  the  easy  slope  carpeted  with  soft  grass. 

The  view  extends  far  out  on  the  lagune.  Murano 
can  be  seen  from  there,  the  island  where  glass  is  made ; 
San  Servolo,  where  the  insane  asylmu  is  located,  and 
the  low  line  of  the  Lido,  with  its  sand-dunes,  its  public 
houses,  and  its  pollarded  trees ;  rows  of  posts,  indicat- 
ing the  depth  of  the  water,  form  a  kind  of  alleys  in  the 
shallow  water,  in  which  float  planks,  wreckage,  and  sea 
d<^bris.  The  perspective  is  enlivened  by  a  perpetual 
coming  and  going  of  sails  and  craft  of  all  kinds. 

The  Public  Gardens,  on  feast  days,  exhibit  the  most 
charming  collection  of  Venetian  beauties.  It  is  there 
that  one  may  study  at  his  ease  that  type  described  by 
Gozzi,  blonde,  "fair  and  portly." 

The  presence  of  the  Austrians  has  necessarily  modi- 
fied the  Venetian  type,  although  marriages  between  them 
are  rare,  on  account  of  the  natural  antipathy  of  the  two 

[     173     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

races  ;  but  one  still  finds  in  real  life  the  models  of  Jean 
Bellin,  of  Giorgione,  of  Titian,  and  of  Veronese. 

The  young  girls  walk  in  groups  of  two  or  three,  most 
of  them  bareheaded,  and  with  their  plentiful  blonde  or 
auburn  hair  dressed  in  good  taste.  The  brown  southern 
type  is  quite  rare  in  Venice  among  the  women,  although 
frequently  met  with  in  the  men.  We  had  already  re- 
marked that  peculiarity  in  Spain,  at  Valencia,  where  the 
male  population  has  the  black  hair,  the  olive  complexion, 
the  wan  and  burnt  appearance  of  a  tribe  of  Bedouins  of 
Africa,  while  the  women  are  as  blonde,  white,  and  fresh- 
colored  as  the  farmers'  daughters  of  Lancashire.  More- 
over, this  distribution  of  shades  is  very  happy.  Adam 
was  of  the  color  of  brick.  Eve,  the  color  of  milk — and 
it  fiu-nishes  painters  with  happy  contrasts. 

We  saw  there  many  charming  heads,  the  very  distinct 
memory  of  which  it  would  be  extremely  difficult  for  us 
to  reproduce  without  a  brush. 

We  will  try  to  sketch  some  general  features.  The 
lines  of  the  face,  without  coming  up  to  the  Greek  regu- 
larity, a  regularity  almost  architectural,  nevertheless 
have  a  rhythm  which  is  wanting  in  the  countenances  of 
the  North,  more  harrassed  by  thought  and  the  multitudi- 
nous uncertainties  of  civilization.  The  noses  are  more 
pure,  more  free  from  bone  than  the  northern  nose,  al- 
ways full  of  the  unexpected  and  of  caprice.  The  eyes 
have  also  that  shining  placidity  unknown  among  us, 
and  which  recalls  the  clear  and  tranquil  look  of  the 
animal :  they  are  very  often  black,  in  spite  of  the  blonde 
tint  of  the  hair ;  the  mouth  has  that  smorfia,  a  species 
of  disdainful  smile,  full  of  provocation  and  of  charm, 
which  gives  so  much  character  to  the  heads  of  the  Ital- 
ian masters. 

That  which  is  especially  charming  in  the  Venetians  is 
the  nape  of  the  neck,  the  end  of  the  neck,  and  the  be- 
ginning of  the  shoulders.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
[     174     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

imagine  anything  more  svelte^  more  elegant,  more  deli- 
cate, and  more  round.  There  is  something  both  of  the 
swan  and  the  dove  in  the  necks  which  undulate,  bend, 
and  bridle;  on  the  napes  are  twisted  all  sorts  of  little 
natural  curls,  little  rebellious  locks,  escaped  from  the  bite 
of  the  comb,  with  plan's  of  light,  sparkling  of  the  sun, 
splendors  of  shade  that  would  dehght  a  colorist.  After 
a  tour  of  the  Public  Gardens  one  is  no  longer  astonished 
at  the  gilded  splendors  of  the  Venetian  school ;  that 
which  one  had  beheved  to  be  a  dream  of  art  is  only  a 
translation,  sometimes  a  poor  one,  of  reality. 

We  have  often  followed  some  of  these  napes  without 
even  trying  to  see  the  head  which  they  carried,  intoxica- 
ting om-selves  vs^itli  these  lines  so  pure  and  this  warm 
whiteness.  Once  even  we  made,  through  the  labyrinth 
of  the  lanes  of  Venice,  a  most  curious  promenade  in  the 
wake  of  a  pretty  neck  which  did  not  understand  it  at  all 
and  took  us  for  a  conceited  and  imbecile  flirt.  She  was 
a  tall  girl,  extraordinarily  brown,  resembhng  ver}"  much 
Mile.  Rachel  in  the  long  and  delicate  elegance  of  her 
figure  and  the  antique  build  of  her  neck.  She  had  such 
a  perfect  dignity  of  movement  that  her  large  red  shawl 
of  barege  appeared  upon  her  like  the  purple  cloak  of  a 
queen.  Never  had  the  great  tragedienne  made  her  pep- 
lum  or  tmiic  assume  more  beautiful  or  more  noble  folds. 

She  walked  quickly,  making  the  folds  of  her  blue  gown 
skim  around  her  like  the  billows  at  the  feet  of  Thetis, 
with  an  ease  and  a  spirited  gait  of  which  a  great  coquette 
might  well  be  jealous.  We,  afterward  lost  sight  of  her 
in  the  crowd  of  promenaders,  but  the  red  twinkle  of  her 
shawl  guided  us  like  the  light  of  a  beacon,  and  we  always 
found  her  again. 

This  pursuit  began  on  the  Place  Saint  Mark.  Near 
the  Bridge  of  the  Paille,  the  beautiful  girl  stopped  and 
talked  a  few  moments  with  a  swarthy  old  man,  with  gray 
hair  and  beard,  a  gondolier  or  fisherman,  who  appeared 

I      170     , 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

to  be  her  father.  The  old  man  gave  her  some  money, 
then  she  phmged  into  one  of  those  Httle  lanes  wliich  de- 
bouch on  the  Quay  of  the  Slaves. 

After  many  detours  in  this  labyrinth  of  lanes,  of  sotto 
portici,  of  canals,  of  bridges  which  so  often  mislead  the 
stranger  in  Venice,  she  came  to  a  halt,  doubtless  to  rid 
herself  of  the  shadow  which  followed  her  at  a  distance, 
before  one  of  those  fish-stands  in  the  open  air,  where 
Spanish  mackerel  is  sold  in  red  slices.  She  bargained 
for  a  long  time  for  a  piece  which  she  did  not  buy.  She 
again  resumed  her  walk,  imperceptibly  turning  her  head 
over  her  shoulders  and  rolling  her  eye  to  our  corner  in 
order  to  see  whether  she  was  rid  of  her  follower.  When 
she  perceived  that  the  contrary  was  the  fact,  she  made  a 
gesture  of  ill-humor  which  made  her  still  more  charming, 
and  continued  her  route  by  streets,  lanes,  places,  passages, 
bridges  with  stairways,  in  a  way  to  completely  throw  us 
off  our  bearings. 

She  led  us  even,  with  her  agile  step  and  always  with 
increasing  speed,  from  the  side  of  the  Arsenal  into  a  de- 
serted quarter  as  far  as  a  place  where  the  facade  of  an 
unfinished  church  rises,-  and  there  threw  herself  like 
a  scared  doe  against  a  door  which  opened  and  closed 
immediately. 

Among  all  the  guesses  this  poor  child  could  have 
made,  —  gallantry,  seduction,  abduction,  —  she  certainly 
could  not  have  imagined  that  she  was  being  followed  by 
a  poet  who  was  feasting  his  eyes,  and  seeking  to  engrave 
in  his  memory  as  a  beautiful  strophe  or  a  fine  picture,  that 
charming  nape  which  he  was  never  to  behold  again. 


170 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE    DEBUT   OF   THE   VICAR  — GONDO- 
LAS—SUNSET 


IN  issuing  from  the  Public  Gardens,  one  finds  oneself 
upon  an  ancient  canal  filled  in  and  transformed  into 
a  street.  This  street  presented  a  most  animated  ap- 
pearance :  in  front  of  the  windows  and  all  the  balconies 
hung  pieces  of  damask,  breadths  of  brocatelle,  Persian 
carpets,  or  carpets  made  of  bits  of  color  in  the  fashion  of 
a  harlequin's  coat,  as  they  are  manufactured  at  Venice ; 
tablecloths  of  guipure,  pieces  of  flaming  silk,  and  on 
the  poorer  houses,  ciu-tains  or  bed-clothes  ;  there  was  not 
a  single  house  unadorned. 

We  could  have  believed  ourselves  in  France  on  the  feast 
of  Corpus  Christi  at  the  time  when  the  procession  is  about 
to  come  forth,  if  the  strangeness  of  the  costumes  and  of  the 
types  had  not  informed  us  to  the  contrary.  The  windows 
framed  groups  of  three  or  four  young  girls  or  yoimg  women 
in  white  or  blue  gowns,  with  shawls  of  Hvely  color,  an 
animated  and  joyous  air,  leaning  out  toward  the  street  or 
turning  around  to  reply  to  men  standing  behind  them. 

The  street  was  encumbered  with  stalls  of  frituriers 
vendors  of  pumpkins,  watermelons,  and  grapes.  The 
acquajoli  threw  into  the  water  a  few  drops  of  kirsch 
which  gave  it  the  coolness  of  ice  and  the  tint  of  the 
opal.  The  improvised  coffee  sellers  sold  their  brown 
liquor;  others  sold  ices,  highly  colored. 

The  wine  shops  were  crowded  with  drinkers,  celebrat- 
ing with  the  black  wine  of  Italy  and  the  yellow  wine  of 
Greece.  An  astonishing  crowd  swarmed  in  gay  tumult 
in  this  narrow  space. 

[     177     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

The  church  in  front  of  which  we  were  passing  per- 
mitted us  to  see  through  its  open  doors  a  conflagration  of 
tapers.  The  principal  altar  was  dazzling,  and  in  that 
warm,  red  atmosphere  thousands  of  lights  scintillated 
like  stars.  The  church  was  hung  with  damask  strewn 
with  gokl,  festooned  with  paper  garlands,  and  the  atten- 
dance was  so  great  that  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  take  three  steps  beyond  the  threshold. 

A  hurricane  of  music,  bass-viols,  flutes,  and  violins 
burst  forth,  under  its  illuminated  arch,  then  the  voices 
took  up  the  chant.  A  musical  service  is  no  rarity  in 
Venice ;  but  this  was  listened  to  with  an  attentive  curi- 
osity which  is  not  customary  in  Italian  worship,  which 
is  slightly  sensuous  and  heedless. 

A  priest  of  the  parish  was  making  his  ddbut  as  cur^ 
or  vicar,  we  know  not  which,  and  that  was  the  motive 
for  this  festival.  Some  sonnets  and  odes  in  praise  of  his 
evangelical  virtues  and  of  his  Chi'istian  charity  were 
placarded  on  the  walls ;  in  Italy,  everything  is  made  the 
occasion  for  a  sonnet.  An  opportunity  for  it  is  found 
m  marriages,  births,  anniversaries,  recoveries  from  illness, 
death.  The  cantatrices  are  overwhelmed  with  them ; 
the  sonnet  is  in  Italy  what  the  eulogy  is  with  us,  an  in- 
nocent and  poetic  eulogy,  entirely  disinterested,  a  naive 
outpouring  of  that  infantine  admiration  which  the 
southern  peoples,  more  passionate  than  those  of  the 
North,  feel  the  need  of  giving  vent  to  apropos  of  every- 
thing. In  these  sonnets  there  is  a  tremendous  consump- 
tion of  metaphors  and  conceits ;  in  them  the  stars  are 
unfastened  and  taken  down  every  minute,  the  planets 
dance  sarabands,  and  omelettes  are  made  of  the  sun  and 
moon.  The  Adonis  of  the  Cavaher  Marin  is  not  so  for- 
gotten as  we  might  think. 

In  passing  along  the  fondamenta  Cd  di  Bio  in  order 
to  return  to  the  Piazetta.,  we  saw  some  young  people  of 
the  city,  lovers  of  aquatic  prowess  like  our  Parisian 
[     178     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 


bargemen,  who  were  hurling,  with  all  the  strength  of 
their  oars,  their  gondolas  against  the  wall  of  the  quay, 
and  when  only  a  few  inches  from  the  stone  wall,  with  a 
powerful  stroke  and  quick  thrust  of  the  oar,  stopped  the 
boat  short.  This  play  is  terrifying  and  at  the  same  time 
pleasant  to  witness ;  one  might  suppose  when  it  is  seen 
coming  on  so  rapidly  that  the  craft  was  about  to  be 
dashed  into  a  thousand  pieces,  but  nothing  of  the  kind 
happens ;  they  take  the  field  and  begin  again. 

It  is  on  the  same  principle  that  the  Arab  or  Turkish 
horsemen  charge  their  horses  against  a  wall  and  quickly 
pull  them  up,  making  the  sudden  immobility  of  repose 
succeed  to  the  violence  of  the  running.  The  ancient 
Venetians  used  to  see  these  equestrian  fantasies  in  the 
Atmeidan  of  Constantinople,  and  have  transferred  them 
to  the  usage  of  their  native  land,  where  the  horse  is,  as 
it  were,  a  chimerical  creature. 

More  than  one  young  patrician  still  wears  the  tra- 
ditional jacket,  cap,  and  girdle,  and  himself  guides  his 
gondola  with  much  skill.  Foreigners  also  have  a  taste 
for  it,  chiefly  the  English,  in  their  character  of  a  nautical 
nation.  Several  of  them  hire  masters  of  the  gondola 
and  exercise  themselves  in  the  difficult  art  of  "  swim- 
ming "  a  la  VenStienne. 

Every  morning  a  young  gentleman  of  a  very  lofty  air 
passed  by  under  our  balcony,  who  worked  at  his  lesson 
at  the  oar  conscientiously  and  perspiringly ;  he  made 
visible  progress,  and  by  this  time  ought  to  be  in  con- 
dition to  be  received  into  the  society  of  the  Nicoletti  or 
of  the  Castellani ;  if  he  continues  he  will  perhaps  aspire 
to  the  baptism  with  Sepia  ink,  still  conferred  in  secret, 
which  is  connected  with  the  consecration  of  a  chief  of 
the  factions  among  the  gondoliers. 

There  are  many  fine  sunsets  in  Paris.  When  one 
goes  forth  from  the  Tuileries  by  way  of  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  and  when  one   turns  one's   face  toward  the 

[     1-9     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

Champs  Elysdes,  it  is  difficult  not  to  be  dazzled  by  the 
magnificent  spectacle  which  presents  itself :  the  masses 
of  trees,  the  Egyptian  obelisk,  the  magical  perspective 
of  the  great  avenue,  the  triumphal  gate  of  the  Arc  de 
I'Etoile,  make  an  admirable  frame  for  the  planet  which 
extinguishes  itself  in  splendors  more  brilliant  to  our  eyes 
than  those  of  day. 

But  there  is  something  still  more  beautiful:  it  is  a 
sunset  in  Venice  when  one  is  coming  from  the  Lido, 
from  Quintavalle  or  the  Public  Gardens. 

The  line  of  houses  of  the  Giudecca  which  cuts  off  the 
dome  of  the  Church  of  the  Redeemer ;  the  point  of  the 
Customhouse  lifting  its  square  tower,  surmounted  by 
two  Hercules  supporting  a  Fortune ;  the  two  cupolas  of 
Santa  Maria  della  Salute,  rounded  like  breasts  full  of 
milk,  form  a  marvelously  undulating  vista  which  is 
strongly  detached  upon  the  sky  and  forms  the  ground- 
work of  the  picture. 

The  Isle  of  Saint  George  Majeur,  more  in  the  fore- 
ground, serves  as  a  set-off,  with  its  church,  its  dome,  and 
its  bell-turret  of  brick,  a  diminutive  of  the  Campanile, 
which  can  be  seen  on  the  right  above  the  ancient  Library 
and  the  Ducal  Palace. 

All  these  edifices,  bathed  in  shadow,  since  the  light  is 
behind  them,  have  azure,  lilac,  and  violet  tints,  on  which 
are  outlined  in  black  the  concourse  of  vessels  at  anchor  ; 
above  them  spreads  a  conflagration  of  splendor ;  the  sun 
goes  down  amidst  accumulations  of  topazes,  of  rubies, 
of  amethysts,  which  vary  their  color  each  instant,  through 
the  clouds  changing  their  form ;  dazzling  rockets  leap  out 
from  between  the  two  cupolas  of  la  Salute,  and  some- 
times, according  to  the  place  where  one  is  standing,  the 
spire  of  Palladio  cuts  in  two  the  disk  of  the  planet. 
This,  without  doubt,  is  very  beautiful,  but  what  doubles 
the  magic  of  the  spectacle,  is  its  repetition  in  the  water. 

This  going  to  bed  of  the  sun,  more  magnificent  than 
[     180     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

that  of  any  king,  has  the  lagoon  for  a  mirror  ;  all  these 
lights,  all  these  beams,  all  these  fires,  all  these  phos- 
phorescences, stream  over  the  rippling  waves  in  sparkles, 
in  spangles,  in  prisms,  in  trails  of  flame.  This  one  glit- 
ters, that  scintillates,  this  blazes  up,  that  is  stirred  in  a 
perpetual  luminous  shimmer.  The  bell-turret  of  Saint 
George  Majeur,  with  its  opaque  shadow  stretched  out 
in  the  distance,  stands  forth  in  black  upon  this  aquatic 
conflagration,  which  increases  it  in  an  extraordinary  way 
and  gives  it  the  appearance  of  having  its  base  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  abyss. 

The  outline  of  the  edifices  seems  to  swim  between  two 
skies  or  between  two  seas.  Is  it  the  water  which  reflects 
the  sky,  or  the  sky  which  reflects  the  water  ?  The  eye 
hesitates,  and  everything  is  confused  in  the  general  be- 
wilderment. 

This  spectacle  recalls  to  us  that  passage  of  the  Magi- 
cien  prodigieux  of  Calderon,  where  the  poet,  describing  a 
sunset  by  the  mouth  of  the  student  Cyprian,  paints  the 
clouds  and  the  waves  which  make 

"  A  tomb  of  silver  for  the  great  corpse  of  gold." 

But  here  let  us  leave  this  impossible  painting,  regret- 
ting that  Ziem,  who  made  so  beautiful  a  sunrise  at  sea, 
of  azure,  silver,  and  rose,  off  the  Fiazetta,  has  not  given 
us  a  setting  taken  from  San  Servolo  or  from  the  bank 
of  the  Schiavoni;  the  fact  will  absolve  us  for  our  descrip- 
tion. 

We  went  ashore  at  the  landing-place  of  the  Piazctta, 
encumbered  by  a  great  crowd  of  gondolas,  and  directed 
our  steps  towards  the  Piazza  by  way  of  the  arcades  of 
the  ancient  Library  of  Sansovino.  Let  us  note  in  pass- 
ing a  characteristic  detail:  at  convenient  places,  where 
with  us  a  Rambuteau  column  might  be  raised,  a  great 
black  cross  is  placed  with  the  word  rispetto,  a  recom- 
mendation which  is  not  very  piously  followed.     It  is  a 

[     181     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

singular  use  to  make  of  the  sign  of  our  redemption  to 
employ  it  to  protect  suspicious  corners.  Is  there  not 
some  reminiscence  of  paganism  in  it,  a  translation  of  the 
verse  of  Horace,  in  the  Itahan  mode: 

"  Children,  go  farther  on  ;  this  place  is  sacred." 

We  beg  pardon  of  our  readers,  especially  of  our  female 
readers,  for  this  somewhat  familiar  remark,  but  it  is  a 
feature  of  manners  which  one  can  and  ought  to  make 
note  of.  It  depicts  Italy,  perhaps,  better  than  a  long 
general  dissertation. 

It  is  on  the  Piazza,  at  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing, that  the  life  of  Venice  reaches  its  maximum  of  in- 
tensity. One  could  not  imagine  anything  more  gay, 
more  lively,  more  amusing.  The  setting  sun  illumines 
with  the  most  vivid  rose  the  fagade  of  Saint  Mark,  which 
seems  to  blush  with  pleasure  and  scintillates  brightly  in 
that  last  ray.  Some  belated  pigeons  regain  the  gable  or 
the  cornice  where  they  will  sleep  until  morning  with 
their  heads  under  their  wings. 

The  Piazza  is  lined  with  cafes,  like  the  Palais  Royal 
at  Paris,  to  which  it  offers  more  than  one  point  of  re- 
semblance. The  most  famous  of  all  is  the  Caf^  Florian, 
the  rendezvous  of  the  aristocracy.  Then  comes  the 
Cafes  Suttil,  Quadri,  Costanza,  frequented  by  the 
Greeks ;  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  where  the  Germans 
and  Levantines  meet. 

These  cafes  have  nothing  remarkable  in  the  way  of 
ornamentation,  especially  if  one  compares  them  to  the  su- 
perb establishments  of  this  type,  overloaded  with  gilding, 
paintings,  and  plate  glass,  which  Paris  possesses.  They 
consist  of  very  simple  rooms  with  quite  low  ceilings,  in 
which  no  one  lingers  save  on  the  worst  days  of  winter ; 
the  only  characteristic  decoration  that  we  are  able  to 
note  are  some  panels  of  stained  glass  in  filigree  work, 
forming  the  inner  doors  of  the  Caf<^  Florian. 

[     182     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

The  former  proprietor  of  the  Cafe  Florian  was  highly- 
esteemed  by  the  old  Venetian  nobility,  to  whom  he  ren- 
dered services  of  various  kinds.  He  was  also  the  friend 
of  Canova,  who  modeled  the  landlord's  leg  when  at- 
tacked by  the  gout,  in  order  that  his  shoemaker  might 
make  shoes  which  would  not  hurt  him.  This  trait  of 
good  fellowship  on  the  part  of  the  illustrious  artist,  be- 
fore whom  the  beautiful  Pauline  Borghese  did  not  dis- 
dain to  pose  nude,  is  touching. 

The  coffee  of  Venice,  as  we  have  already  remarked, 
is  excellent ;  it  is  served  on  copper  trays,  accompanied 
by  a  glass  of  cognac,  the  sipping  of  which  fills  all  the 
leisure  hours  of  the  Venetians.  There  is  nothing  re- 
markable about  the  ices  except  their  cheapness ;  they 
are  far  from  possessing  the  exquisite  refinement  of  the 
Spanish  iced  drinks.  We  never  discovered  anything 
pecuHar  to  the  place  except  a  certain  sorhet  ate  raisin  or 
vert-jics,  veiy  refreshing  and  agreeable. 

The  customers  seat  themselves  under  the  arcades  or 
upon  the  Piazza  itself,  where  wooden  chairs,  benches 
and  tables  are  installed  before  each  cafe.  Sometimes 
tents  and  striped  banners  are  set  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  Place  with  a  pleasing  effect ;  this  picturesque  custom 
has,  however,  disappeared.  The  motley  blinds  are  also 
commencing  to  become  scarce  ;  they  are  too  frequently 
replaced  with  horrible  strips  of  blue  cloth,  like  kitchen 
aprons.  It  is  less  gaudy  and  in  better  taste  say  the 
civilized. 

The  flower  girls,  very  obliging,  very  shrewd,  but  never- 
theless of  a  fierce  virtue,  if  the  stories  told  of  Englishmen 
who  fall  in  love  with  them  and  throw  bank-notes  by  the 
handful  into  their  baskets  without  the  least  success  are 
to  be  believed,  flutter  about  on  the  Place,  and  make  gay 
the  passer-by  and  the  purchasers  of  their  pretty  nose- 
gays ;  when  any  one  refuses  to  buy  they  laughingly  give 
him  a  little  bouquet  and  run  off.  It  is  not  the  custom 
[     183     ] 


JOUKNEYS      IN      ITALY 

to  pay  them  on  the  spot, —  that  would  be  indeUcate ; 
but  one  gives  them  from  time  to  time  a  Httle  piece  of 
money  in  the  guise  of  a  present. 

To  the  flower  sellers  succeed  the  vendors  of  frosted 
fruits  who  go  about  crying,  "  Caramel  !  Caramel !  "  in 
a  deafening  way.  Their  outfit  consists  of  a  basket  con- 
taining grapes,  figs,  pears,  and  plums,  covered  with  a 
shining  crust  of  candied  sugar. 

One  of  them,  a  little  fellow  of  a  dozen  years,  amused 
us  by  the  prodigious  volubility  with  which  he  uttered 
his  cry.  We  gave  him  some  money  and  he  always 
stopped  to  talk  to  us.  His  relations  with  foreigners 
of  all  coimtries  had  made  him  a  polyglot,  and  there 
was  scarcely  a  language  of  which  he  did  not  possess 
some  few  words.  This  Parisian  gamin  on  the  pavement 
of  Venice  was  full  of  intelligence,  and  very  quick.  It 
appeared  that  the  viceroy  had  even  provided  a  little 
pension  to  assist  in  bringing  him  up,  but  the  young 
seller  of  sweets  had  compromised  himself  under  the 
government  of  Manin ;  he  had  been  a  drummer  of  the 
Republic,  and  his  prowess  had  caused  him  to  lose  his 
position  as  a  pensioner  of  the  State. 

One  evening,  a  most  beautiful  one,  on  which  he 
offered  his  wares  with  perhaps  too  much  importunity, 
he  received  a  terrible  blow  from  a  cane  on  his  poor  little, 
thin  shoulder;  he  said  nothing  and  did  not  cry,  but  he 
launched  toward  the  brute  a  glance  which  signified, 
"  Good  for  a  coltellata  some  years  hence."  We  hope 
that  this  account  will  be  settled  like  that  of  Loredano. 
In  a  movement  of  very  natural  indignation  we  had  al- 
ready raised  a  stool  in  order  to  crack  the  skull  of  that 
wretched  villain  in  Sunday  clothes ;  but  a  lack  of  moral 
courage,  to  which  we  reproach  ourselves  for  having  yield- 
ed, stayed  our  hand.  We  recoiled  before  a  tumult  and 
an  explanation  in  a  dialect  which  was  not  familiar  to  us. 

We  had  also  for  friends  a  collection  of  little  beggars, 
[     184     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

boys  and  girls,  very  dishevelled  and  very  ragged,  very 
blonde  and  very  rosy  mider  tlieir  dirt  and  tan,  and  who 
only  needed  a  bath  in  three  or  four  pails  of  water  in 
order  to  make  them  swim  in  the  ultramarine  of  the  skies 
of  Veronese.  One  of  them  had  a  pair  of  pantaloons  made 
of  selvages  of  cloth  sewed  together,  which  produced  the 
most  singular  medley.  On  one  of  these  bands  could  be 
read  "Manufactory  of  clotlis  of  Elbeuf,"  in  yellow  letters 
on  a  blue  ground.  This  harlequin  garment,  composed  of 
chppings,  made  the  most  picturesque  rig  in  the  world. 

We  sometimes  gave  a  "Zwantzig"  to  a  httle  girl,  the 
most  intelligent  of  the  band,  on  condition  of  her  sharing 
it  with  the  others;  and  it  was  very  droll  to  see  her  go- 
ing to  find  the  money-changer  in  order  to  procure  the 
change  necessary  to  make  the  division,  or  the  little 
rogues  drawing  from  their  tatters  what  might  be  neces- 
sary to  make  the  change  between  their  share  and  the 
larger  coin  she  had  given  them. 


[     185     ] 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE    VENETIANS  — WILLIAM    TELL— 
GIROLAMO 


IF  there  is  anything  in  the  world  in  the  shape  of 
indolence  and  laziness  that  is  delightful,  it  is  the 
mode  of  life  of  the  Venetians  of  the  npper  class. 
The  use  of  the  gondola  has  gotten  them  out  of  the  habit 
of  walking.  They  scarcely  know  how  to  take  a  step. 
There  is  necessary,  in  order  for  them  to  risk  themselves 
in  the  open  air,  a  combination  of  atmospheric  conditions 
rare  even  in  that  soft  and  pleasant  climate. 

The  sirocco,  the  sun,  a  cloud  which  threatens  rain,  a 
too  fresh  sea-breeze  are  sufficient  reasons  for  their  re- 
maining indoors  ;  a  mere  nothing  depresses  them  ;  a  mere 
trifle  fatigues  them,  and  their  greatest  exertion  is  to  go 
from  their  sofa  to  their  balcony  to  breathe  the  fragrance 
of  one  of  their  big  flowers  which  blooms  so  well  in  the 
moist  and  tepid  air  of  Venice.  This  nonchalant  and 
retired  life  gives  them  a  pale  and  pearly  whiteness  of 
skin,  a  dehcacy  of  complexion  almost  incredible. 

When  by  chance  one  of  those  privileged  days  arrives 
which  are  called  with  us  "  temjjs  dc  demoiselle"  some  few 
of  them  take  two  or  three  turns  on  the  Place  Saint 
Mark,  at  the  hour  when  the  military  band  plays  its  even- 
ing symphony,  and  rest  a  long  time  in  front  of  the 
Cafe  Florian,  opposite  a  glass  of  water  opalized  by  a 
drop  of  anise,  in  the  company  of  their  husbands,  brothers 
or  cavaliers  in  waiting  ;  but  this  is  rare,  especially  in  the 
months  ruled  by  the  dog-star,  during  which  the  patrician 
or  rich  families  take  refuge  on  the  mainland  in  their 
villas,  on  the  border  of  the  Brenta,  or  upon  their  estates 

[     186     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

in  Friulia,  on  account  of  the  exhalations  of  the  lagunes, 
which  are  said  to  be  unhealthy  and  to  cause  fevers. 

In  other  days  the  Levantines  abounded  in  Venice ; 
their  pelisses,  their  dolmans,  their  ample  coats  of  strik- 
ing colors  picturesquely  thversified  the  crowd,  through 
which  they  passed  impassive  and  grave.  There  are 
fewer  of  them  to-day,  since  commerce  has  turned  away 
and  takes  the  road  to  Trieste  ;  but  Greeks  are  frequently 
met  with,  with  caps  surmounted  by  a  vast  topknot  of 
silk,  a  head  of  bluish-black  hair  which  spreads  over  the 
shoulders,  with  shaven  temples,  hair  floating  out  behind, 
and  chai-acteristic  physiognoni}',  whose  beautiful  national 
dress  does  not  harmonize  with  the  hideous  modern  cos- 
tume. These  Greeks,  the  majority  of  whom  are  only 
traders  or  captains  of  small  vessels  from  Zante,  Corfu, 
Cyprus,  or  Sjaia,  have  a  singular  majestj^  of  figure,  and 
the  nobility  of  their  ancient  race  is  written  uj)on  their 
features  as  in  a  book  of  gold.  They  betake  themselves  in 
groups  of  three  or  four  to  the  corner  of  the  Piazza^  to  the 
Cafe  de  la  Costanza,  which  enjoys  the  monopoly  of  offering 
the  mocha  and  the  pipe  to  the  children  of  the  Levant. 

Around  the  cafes  perambulate  wandering  musicians 
who  play  bits  of  operas,  tenor  voices  singing  Lucia  or 
some  other  air  of  Donizetti,  with  that  supple  voice  and 
that  admirable  Italian  facility,  in  which  mstinct  mimics 
talent  so  far  as  to  be  mistaken  for  it ;  a  Chinese  puppet- 
show,  differing  from  ours  in  that  the  background  of  the 
tableau  is  black  and  the  figures  white,  rapidly  unfolds 
itself,  framed  in  a  canvas  booth.  The  showman,  a 
species  of  gracioso  clothed  in  an  old-fashioned  dress-coat, 
and  wearing  a  kind  of  cocked  hat,  explains  that  in  other 
days  he  was  an  opera  impressario,  but  that  by  reason 
of  the  high  price  of  the  tenors  and  the  capricious  temper 
of  the  prima  donnas,  he  has  been  reduced  to  poverty 
and  no  longer  directs  anything  but  Chinese  puppets,  — 
a  docile  company,  and  not  expensive. 

[     1S7     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

But  a  group  forms  in  the  middle  of  tlie  Place  ;  only  a 
distracted  attention  is  given  the  tenor ;  the  Chinese 
puppets  see  the  circle  of  their  spectators  broken ;  the 
vendors  of  caramel  cease  their  monotonous  cries ;  the 
chairs  execute  a  quarter  turn  ;  all  is  silent.  The  desks 
have  been  arranged,  the  music  placed  in  position,  the 
military  band  arrives,  plays  a  prelude,  begins  the  per- 
formance.    It  is  the  overture  to  William  Tell. 

Just  as  the  Italians  have  the  instinct  of  vocal  music, 
the  Germans  have  the  instinct  of  instrumental  music. 
The  overture  is  played  with  a  correctness  that  is  alto- 
gether admirable ;  still,  there  is  wanting  that  energy, 
that  animation,  that  savage  ardor  which  that  revolution- 
ary music  imperiously  demands.  All  that  renders  love, 
the  delights  of  a  pastoral  life,  the  snows  of  the  moun- 
tain, the  emerald  of  the  prairie,  the  azure  of  the  lake, 
the  somid  of  bells,  the  fresh  Alpine  perfumes,  is  ex- 
pressed with  a  profound  and  poetic  sentiment ;  but  the 
accents  of  revolt  and  of  liberty,  the  indignation  of  a 
spirited  soul  oppressed  by  tyranny,  all  the  tumultuous, 
boiling  part  of  the  work,  is  rendered  in  a  feeble,  timorous 
manner,  evasive  in  some  degree,  as  if  a  mysterious  censor- 
ship had  ordered  these  noises  of  clarions  to  be  extinguished 
in  an  effeminate  harmony ;  this  whistling  of  arrows,  these 
bitter  groans  of  a  people  which  shakes  its  chains. 

It  even  seemed  as  though  it  was  meant  to  prevent  the 
Venetians  from  thinking  that  the  cap  of  Gessler,  the 
sign  of  the  Austrian  domination  before  which  it  was 
necessary  to  bow  the  head,  is  forever  fixed  at  the  top  of 
its  mast.  The  three  masts  of  Saint  Mark,  with  their 
yellow  and  black  banners,  are  there  to  render  the  com- 
parison easy,  and  the  overture,  played  with  great  vigor, 
might  well  convey  the  idea  of  overthrowing  the  insignia 
of  the  tyrant. 

The  overture  ended,  the  crowd  slowly  retires.  Soon 
there    remain    only    occasional    pedestrians,    when    the 

[      1«8      ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

hirrichini^  a  species  of  ruffians  whose  most  honest  busi- 
ness is  the  sale  of  contraband  cigars,  pursue  you  with 
their  suspicious  propositions ;  for  while  one  still  reads 
in  the  tales  of  travelers  that  night  is  turned  into  day  in 
Venice,  it  is  no  less  true  that  at  midnight  the  Piazza  is 
deserted,  and  certainly  more  solitary  than  the  Boulevard 
de  Gand  at  the  same  hour.  This  will  not  prevent 
tourists,  on  the  faith  of  old  conditions  which  they  apply 
to  customs  fallen  into  desuetude  since  the  fall  of  the 
Republic,  from  saying  for  fifty  years  yet  that  the  Place 
Saint  Mark  swarms  with  people  until  morning. 

That  was  true  when  the  apartments  which  rise  upon 
the  arcades  of  the  old  and  new  Procm-aties  were  occupied 
by  faro  banks,  places  of  assembly  and  casinos,  when  all 
this  nocturnal  world  of  nobles,  chevaliers  of  industry  and 
courtesans  moved  in  a  perpetual  carnival  in  which 
nothing  was  wanting,  not  even  the  mask,  and  of  which 
Casanova  of  Seingalt  has  left  in  his  memoirs  such  curious 
pictures. 

The  offices  of  the  commercial  brokers,  the  shops  where 
the  glassware  of  Murano,  the  collars  of  shells  and  of  coral, 
the  models  of  gondolas,  are  sold ;  the  shops  for  engrav- 
ings, cards,  and  views  of  Venice,  for  the  use  of  foreigners, 
were  closed  one  after  another.  Nothing  remained  open 
except  the  cafes  and  the  tobacco  stores. 

It  was  time  to  regain  our  gondola,  which  awaited  us 
at  the  landing-place  of  the  Piazctta,  near  the  lantern  of 
the  Duchess  of  Berry.  The  moon  had  risen;  and  nothing- 
is  more  charming  than  an  excursion  by  moonlight  along 
the  Grand  Canal  or  the  Giudecca.  It  is  a  romantic  satis- 
faction which  it  is  hardly  permissible  for  an  enthusiastic 
traveler  of  the  class  described  by  Hoffmann  to  deny  him- 
self on  a  beautiful  clear  night  in  August. 

We  had  still  another  reason  for  wandering  on  the  la- 
gune  at  an  hour  at  which  it  would  be  wiser  for  us  to  en- 
velope ourselves  in  our  mosquito  net.    Who  has  not  heard 

[      189     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

the  gondoliers  spoken  of,  who  sing  octaves  of  Tasso  and 
boatmen's  songs  in  that  Venetian  patois,  so  broken,  so 
zigzagging  that  it  seems  an  infantile  stuttering?  The  gon- 
doliers have  not  sung  for  a  long  time.  Nevertheless  the 
tradition  is  not  yet  lost;  the  old  folk  of  the  landing-place 
preserve  in  the  depths  of  their  memories  some  episode  of 
the  Jemsalcm  delivree,  of  which  they  ask  nothing  better 
than  to  remind  themselves  in  consideration  of  some 
glasses  of  Cyprus,  J^ike  the  girls  of  Ischia,  who  only 
wear  their  fine  Greek  costumes  for  the  English,  they 
only  display  their  melodies  knowingly  and  to  tlie  accom- 
paniment of  guineas. 

We  accordingly  gave  to  old  Girolamo,  who  was  fomid 
for  us  by  Antonio,  some  small  gold  pieces,  that  he  might 
play  for  us  between  sky  and  water  that  musico-picturesque 
comedy,  of  which  we  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  the 
dupe. 

Girolamo  was  a  droll  fellow,  bronzed  by  the  sun,  the 
sea-air  and  the  numerous  libations  which  he  allowed  him- 
self in  order  to  sustain  the  suppleness  of  his  throat ;  the 
song  being  salty,  he  was  obliged,  he  said,  to  drink  much ; 
each  stanza  affected  him  like  ham  or  caviare. 

When  we  were  somewhat  in  the  offing  of  the  vast 
canal  of  the  Qiudecca,  which  is  almost  an  arm  of  the 
sea,  nearly  opposite  the  Church  of  the  Jesuits,  the  white 
faQade  of  which  the  moon  silvered,  Girolamo,  after  hav- 
ing lubricated  his  bronchial  tubes  with  a  big  bumper, 
sang  for  us  in  a  guttural  voice,  a  trifle  hoarse,  but  which 
reached  a  long  distance  on  the  water,  with  trills  and  pro- 
longed cadences  after  the  manner  of  the  Tyrolean  singers, 
la  Biondma  in  gondoletta,  Pronta  la  gondoletta,  and  the 
episode  of  Herminie  cliez  les  Bergers. 

The  first  of  these  barcarolles  is  charming ;  Rossini  has 
not  disdained  to  place  one  or  two  couplets  of  it  in  the 
singing  lesson  in  the  Barker  of  Seville;  it  might  almost 
be  considered  the  type  of  its  kind,  both  air  and  words ; 

[     190     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

the  others  are  hardly  more  than  variations  of  this  theme. 
It  would  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  translate  into 
a  formal  language  all  the  pretty  turns  and  charming 
diminutives  of  the  Venetian  dialect.  It  has  to  do  with 
an  amorous  excursion  on  the  water. 

"  A  prett}'  blonde,"  says  the  song,  has  entered  a  gon- 
dola and  has  fallen  asleep  in  the  boat  on  the  arm  of  a 
gondolier,  who  awakens  her  from  time  to  time  ,  but  the 
motion  of  the  barge  soon  puts  the  pretty  child  to  sleep 
again  ;  the  moon  is  half  hidden  in  the  clouds,  the  lagune 
is  calm  and  the  wind  is  gentle ;  onl}^  a  light  breeze  stirs 
the  locks  of  the  pretty  one  and  lifts  the  veil  which  covers 
her  breast ;  in  contemplating  fixedly  the  perfection  of  her 
charms,  that  lovely,  simple  face,  that  mouth  and  those 
charming  breasts,  the  gondolier  feels  a  madness  in  his 
heart,  a  great  disturbance,  a  species  of  bliss  he  knows 
not  how  to  explain  ;  he  at  first,  for  a  short  while,  respects 
and  guards  that  tranquil  repose,  although  love  tempts  him 
and  counsels  him  to  distiu'b  it.  And  softly,  very  softly 
he  allows  himseM  to  slip  down  by  the  side  of  the  girl,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  boat;  but  who  could  find  repose  with 
fire  for  his  neighbor?  Finally,  wearied  by  this  prolonged 
slumber,  he  becomes  bold,  and  certainly  has  not  occasion 
to  repent  of  his  audacity.  "Oh,  nion  Dieu! "  he  cries  in  his 
naive  simplicity,  "  what  lovely  things  she  has  said  and  I 
have  done!   Never  in  all  my  days  have  I  been  so  happy !  " 

We  made  the  mistake  of  keeping  our  singer  with  us 
in  our  boat  instead  of  placing  him  in  a  boat  at  a  distance 
or  of  listening  to  the  song  from  the  shore,  for  this  kind 
of  music  sounds  better  from  a  distance  than  close  at 
hand;  but,  more  of  a  poet  than  a  musician,  we  were 
anxious  to  catch  the  woids. 

In  the  octave  of  Tasso,  Girolamo  drew  his  breath  just 
in  the  middle  of  the  verse  and  finished  with  a  kind  of 
weird  trill,  designed,  doubtless,  to  sustain  the  rhythm 
and  to  make  it  carry. 

[     191     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

At  a  distance  this  rude  and  strongly  accentuated  sing- 
ing assumes  harmony,  and  by  its  very  singularity  gives 
more  pleasure  than  an  opera  air  sung  by  Mario  or  Rubini. 
There  are  moments  of  silence,  languor,  and  obscurity  in 
which  the  soul  seems  to  wait  for  a  melody  to  gush  forth 
from  the  bottom  of  all  this  calm,  and  the  first  human 
voice  which  comes  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea,  the  least 
chord  of  a  piano  filtering  through  the  opening  of  a  bal- 
cony, are  hailed  as  beneficences. 

In  retailing  his  repertoire,  Girolamo  had  made  such 
frequent  embraces  of  the  bottle  that  we  were  obliged  to 
land  for  a  fresh  supply  from  a  public-house  on  the  Fon- 
damente  dcllc  Zattere.  His  bottle  refilled,  he  sang  once 
more  with  all  his  verve. 

Made  hvely  by  the  guzzling  of  a  haK-bottle  of  wine 
de  Val  Policella  he  undertook  to  mimic  the  sounds  which 
the  ducks  make  when,  surprised  in  the  marsh,  they  fly 
away  brushing  the  top  of  the  water  and  uttering  those 
"kouan,  kouan"  which  Aristophanes  was  not  afraid  to 
transfer  to  a  chorus  of  onomatopoeia  in  some  mad 
comedy  of  frogs  or  of  birds. 

To  speak  truly,  it  was  the  finest  piece  of  his  reper- 
toire :  he  mimicked  the  duck  in  a  way  calculated  to  de- 
ceive the  bird  itself,  and  Antonio  allowed  his  oar  to  drag 
and  laughed  until  the  tears  came. 

Girolamo  seemed  very  proud  of  this  talent  and  valued 
it  more  highly  than  all  the  rest.  He  imitated  also  the 
whistling  of  the  bombs  which  he  had  had  occasion  to 
study  from  nature  during  the  siege.  As  he  imitated 
vrith  his  mouth  the  flight  of  the  missiles  and  their  fall 
into  the  water,  his  eyes  flashed  peculiarly,  and  he  drew 
himself  up  with  a  certain  haughtiness.  Although  he 
had  not  said  a  word  which  might  betray  him,  for  pru- 
dence never  abandons  a  Venetian,  it  was  not  difficult  to 
understand  that  he  had  taken  an  active  part  and  passed 
powder  and  munitions  more  than  once  in  his  gondola 
[      l'J2      ] 


JOURNEYS. IN      ITALY 

under  the  fire  of  tlie  batteries.  More  than  one  of  those 
bombs  wliich  he  parodied  so  well  he  had  seen  fall  near 
him. 

Moreover,  the  government  has  not  endeavored  to  main- 
tain silence  in  regard  to  its  deeds.  Quite  numerous  ad- 
vertisements of  works  relating  to  the  siege  of  Venice 
cover  the  walls  of  the  Procuraties.  There  is  even  a 
sort  of  diorama  which  represents  the  principal  events 
of  the  siege  and  of  the  defense.  This  tolerance,  we  ad- 
mit, has  somewhat  surprised  us;  but  it  is  part,  it  is  said, 
of  a  political  policy,  which  seeks  to  have  the  Austrian 
domination  found  to  be  more  mild  than  the  absolute 
regime  of  the  Pontifical  States  or  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Naples, 

When  one  does  not  know  Venice  and  has  read  in  news- 
papers the  story  of  that  heroic  and  long  defense,  one  ex- 
pects to  fuid  a  ravaged  city,  scarred  by  bombs,  with  heaps 
of  debris  and  shattered  roofs.  Aside  from  some  stones 
carried  away  from  the  Labbia  Palace  and  some  excoria- 
tions of  projectiles  on  the  dome  and  facade  of  San 
Geremia,  at  the  end  of  the  Grand  Canal,  there  are  no 
evidences  of  the  siege  visible.  To  witness  the  ravages 
of  the  siege  it  is  necessary  to  go  to  the  islands  aroimd 
the  forts  and  outworks  wliich  protect  this  city,  almost  im- 
pregnable on  account  of  its  situation  in  the  midst  of  vast 
and  shallow  lagunes  which  render  the  approach  of  heavy 
artillery  impossible.  The  Austrians  had  intended  to  use 
aerostatic  shells ;  but  the  wind  deflected  them  from  their 
course  or  they  were  raised  too  high,  exploding  in  the  air 
and  domg  harm  to  no  one.  These  balloon  bombs  even 
became  a  source  of  amusement  for  the  populace,  who 
regarded  them  bursting  in  the  sky  as  some  sort  of  fire- 
works. 

Venice,  before  which  Attila  recoiled,  remained  free 
from  all  invasion  for  fourteen  hundred  j^ears;  up  to  1797 
it  preserved  the  form  of  a  repubhc.     Struck  with  that 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

senile  terror  which  precipitates  to  their  ruin  decaying 
states,  it  surrendered  itself  without  contest  to  a  con- 
queror who,  better  appreciating  its  resources  and  situa- 
tion than  it  did  itself,  did  not  believe  it  could  be  taken 
and  was  about  to  pass  it  by  on  his  road.  And  since  then 
no  doge  mounted  on  his  Bucentaur  has  been  able  to  cele- 
brate his  nuptials  with  the  sea.  The  Adriatic  no  longer 
wears  on  its  finger  the  azure  ring  of  gold  of  its  spouse, 
and  the  eagle  of  Austria  sinks  its  hooked  beak  into  the 
flank  of  the  winged  lion  of  Saint  Mark.  But  let  us 
leave  this  political  consideration  and  return  to  the 
Campo  San  Mose. 

The  great  business  before  going  to  bed  is  to  hunt  for 
the  zinzares,  the  atrocious  mosquitoes  which  especially 
torment  foreigners,  upon  whom  they  throw  themselves 
with  the  pleasure  that  a  gourmet  takes  in  relishing  exotic 
and  rare  viands. 

The  grocers  and  pharmacists  sell  a  fumigating  powder 
which  is  burned  on  a  chafing  dish,  all  windows  being 
closed,  and  which  drives  away  or  suffocates  the  terrible 
insects.  We  believe  this  powder  to  be  more  disagreeable 
to  human  beings  than  to  the  mosquitoes,  and  numerous 
bites  on  our  hands  and  face  testify  in  the  morning  to  the 
inefficiency  of  the  remedy. 

The  wisest  plan  is  not  to  place  a  light  near  one's  bed 
and  to  wrap  oneself  hermetically  in  the  gauze  of  the 
mosquito  net.  Fortunately  we  have  a  southern  skin, 
tanned  by  the  air,  burned  by  travel,  which  repulses  the 
proboscis  and  the  borings  of  these  nocturnal  drinkers  of 
blood;  but  there  are  people  with  a  more  delicate  epider- 
mis, who  are  compelled  to  endure  a  real  punishment. 
The  skin  is  inflamed  and  covered  with  pustules;  the 
face  swells  under  these  venomous  pustules  which  cause 
an  insufferable  itching.  With  certain  persons  we  have 
known  a  fever  to  follow  these  infernal  nights;  it  is  suf- 
ficient, in  order  not  to  close  one's  eyes  all  night,  to  shut 

[      19i      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

up  in  the  net  with  you  one  of  these  buzzing  monsters; 
but  we  were  ah^eady  acclimated. 

The  silence  of  Venice  is  often  spoken  of;  but  one 
must  not  lodge  near  a  landing-place  in  order  to  find  this 
statement  true.  There  went  on  under  our  window  whis- 
perings, laughter,  shouts,  songs,  a  perpetual  disturbance, 
which  did  not  stop  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
The  gondoliers,  who  sleep  all  day  while  waiting  to  be 
hired,  are  at  night  as  wakeful  as  cats,  and  hold  their  con- 
venticles, which  are  scarcely  less  noisy,  under  the  arch 
of  some  bridge  or  on  the  steps  of  some  landing-place. 
We  had  both  the  bridge  and  the  landing.  Seated  on  a 
marble  step  or  on  the  poop  of  their  gondolas,  they  eat 
shell-fish,  drink  Friulian  wine,  and  sup  gaily  by  the 
light  of  the  stars  and  the  little  lamps  at  the  street  cor- 
ners lighted  in  front  of  the  niches  of  the  Madonnas. 
Certain  of  their  friends,  voluptuous  vagabonds  who  have 
church  porticoes  for  alcoves  and  for  mattresses  the  big 
flagstones  warmed  by  the  day's  sun,  come  to  join  them 
and  increase  the  tumult.  Add  to  these  some  pretty 
servant-girls,  taking  advantage  of  the  slumber  of  their 
mistresses  to  go  to  meet  some  big  fellow  with  bronzed 
skin,  shaggy  cap,  and  jacket  of  Persian  cotton,  dragging 
around  on  his  breast  more  amulets  than  an  American 
savage  has  of  colored  glass  beads,  and  whose  contralto 
voices,  by  turns  shrill  and  deep,  flow  on  in  waves  of  in- 
exhaustible chatter  with  that  sonorousness  peculiar  to 
the  languages  of  the  South,  and  you  have  a  very  clear 
idea  of  the  silence  of  Venice. 


[     195     ] 


CHAPTER    XVI 
THE     ARSENAL— FUSINE 


THE  weather  was  fine,  and  the  fancy  seized  us,  in 
view  of  the  brightness  of  the  sky,  to  go  for  break- 
fast to  the  free  port  on  the  isle  of  San  Georges 
Majeur,  and  on  the  same  trip,  to  visit  the  beautiful 
church  of  Palladio,  whose  red  bell-turret  makes  so  fine 
an  effect  upon  the  lagune.  The  fagade  has  been  slightly 
retouched  by  Scamozzi;  the  interior  contains,  in  addition 
to  the  necessary  accompaniment  of  enormous  pictures  by 
Tintoretto,  —  that  robust  workman  who  painted  acres  of 
ehefs-cVoeuvre,  —  columns  of  Greek  marble,  gilded  altars, 
statues  in  stone,  in  bronze,  an  admirable  choir  in  sculp- 
tured carpentry,  representing  various  scenes  from  the 
life  of  Saint  Benoit,  which  reminded  us  of  the  wonder- 
ful sculptures  in  wood  by  Berreguete,  in  the  Spanish 
cathedrals.  This  fine  piece  of  work  was  carved  with  a 
charming  art  and  unheard-of  patience  by  Albert  of 
Brule,  one  of  those  talented  persons  who  pass  unknown 
in  the  overproduction  of  geniuses,  products  of  the  cen- 
turies which  preceded  us,  and  with  whom  human 
memory  has  not  charged  itself.  A  pretty  statuette  of 
bronze,  located  on  the  balustrade  of  the  choir,  on  the 
right  when  coming  from  the  portico,  and  representing 
Saint  George,  offers  the  peculiarity  of  bearing  a  closer 
resemblance  to  Lord  Byron  than  any  portrait  which  was 
ever  made  of  him.  This  portraiture  by  anticipation,  and, 
as  it  were,  prophetic,  struck  us  forcibly.  One  does  not 
know  where  there  is  to  be  seen  elsewhere  anything  more 
elegant,  more  disdainfully  aristocratic,  more  English,  in 
a  word,  than  this  head  of  a  Greek  saint,  whose  lip  is  con- 
tracted with  the  sneer  of  the  poet  of  Don  Juan.  We  do 
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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

not  know  whether  the  noble  lord,  who  lived  in  Venice 
for  a  long  time  and  who  must  necessarily  have  visited 
the  church  of  Saint  George  Majeur,  remarked  as  we  did 
this  really  unique  resemblance,  and  who  doubtless  would 
have  felt  flattered  by  it. 

Behind  the  church,  built  on  the  point  of  the  island 
which  looks  toward  the  Piazetta^  are  spread  out  the 
warehouses  of  the  port,  and  the  docks  of  the  free  port. 

After  getting  through  the  door  guarded  by  the  cus- 
toms ofiicers,  one  traverses  some  courts  surrounded  by 
arcades  of  considerable  height  and  filled  with  neglected 
vegetation,  and  arrives  at  a  sort  of  public-house  or  wine- 
shop, the  rendezvous  of  sailors  and  gondoliers  who  there 
enjoy  the  sweets  of  drinking  wine  free  of  duty,  some- 
what like  the  workmen  of  Paris  going  to  enjoy  them- 
selves outside  the  barriers.  The  tavern  is  always  filled 
with  people,  and  the  customers  stretch  themselves  out 
upon  the  benches  around  the  wooden  tables  for  which 
the  shadow  of  the  church  serves  as  an  arbor.  Rapscal- 
lions pushing  wheelbarrows  loaded  with  bales  circulate 
in  the  midst  of  the  topers,  whom  they  eye  with  an  air  of 
envy,  and  near  whom  they  will  come  to  sit  down  when 
they  have  earned  the  few  sous  necessary  for  these  frugal 
orgies.  Opposite  the  wine-shop,  a  great  empty  store- 
house, whose  barred  wmdows  open  on  a  deserted  lane, 
serves  for  a  refuge  to  those  wearied  of  the  somewhat  tur- 
bulent gaiety,  and  for  loving  couples  seeking  solitude. 

One  is  served  there  with  mullet  from  the  Adriatic 
(trigli)  so  appetizing,  so  red,  of  so  fresh  a  shade  that 
one  would  eat  them  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  the  color, 
were  they  not,  as  indeed  they  are,  the  best  in  the  world; 
peaches,  grapes,  a  bottle  of  Cyprus  wine,  and  some  coffee, 
make  a  breakfast  exquisite  in  its  simplicity,  and  if  by 
chance  you  put  your  hand  upon  a  good  Havana  cigar 
which  you  smoke  in  the  bottom  of  your  gondola  return- 
ing toward  the  shore  of  the  Schiavoni,  we  do  not  see 

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JOUENEYS     IN     ITALY 

much  that  can  be  wanting  to  your  happiness,  if  in  addi- 
tion you  have  received  pleasant  letters  from  France  the 
evening  before. 

It  is  early,  and  before  going  to  visit  Fusine,  we 
shall  have  time  to  visit  the  Arsenal,  not  the  interior, 
which  is  at  present  forbidden;  but  we  can  —  and  it  in- 
terests us  more  than  the  sight  of  stacks  of  muskets  and 
ships  in  process  of  construction  —  admire  from  the  out- 
side the  lions  of  the  Piraeus,  trophies  secured  by  Morosini 
in  the  war  of  the  Peloponnesus. 

These  two  colossal  figures  in  pentelic  marble  are  de- 
nuded of  that  zoological  verity  which  Barye  without 
doubt  gave  them,  but  they  have  something  about  them 
so  haughty,  so  grand,  so  divine,  if  that  adjective  can  be 
applied  to  animals,  that  they  produce  a  profound  im- 
pression. Their  gilded  whiteness  stands  out  admirably 
from  the  red  facade  of  the  Arsenal,  composed  of  a 
portico  filled  with  statues  of  a  merit  that  this  terrible 
vicinage  causes  to  resemble  puppets,  and  two  small 
towers  of  red  brick  indented  and  hemmed  about  with 
stones  like  the  houses  of  the  Place  Royale  of  Paris. 
Trophies  of  a  defeat,  but  preserving  always  their  proud 
and  haughty  mien,  they  have  the  air  of  remembering,  in 
the  City  of  Saint  Mark,  the  ancient  Minerva ;  and  the 
great  Goethe  has  celebrated  them  by  an  epigram  which 
we  translate  here,  begging  pardon  for  substituting  our 
paltry  verses  for  the  Olympian  rhymes  of  the  Jupiter  of 
Weimar : 

Deux  grands  lions  rapport6s  de  I'Attique, 
Font  sentinelle  aux  murs  de  I'Ars^nal, 
Paisiblement,  et  pres  du  couple  antique, 
Tout  est  petit,  porte,  tour  et  canal. 

lis  semblent  faits  pour  le  char  de  Cybele, 
Tant  ils  sent  fiers,  et  la  mere  des  dieux 
Voudrait  au  joug  ployer  leur  cou  rebelle, 
Si  pour  la  terre  elle  quittait  les  cieux. 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

Mais  main  tenant  ils  gardent  la  poterne, 
Tristes,  sans  gloire,  et  Ton  entend  ici 
Miauler  partout  le  chat  ail6  moderne, 
Que  pour  patron  Venise  s'est  choisi  ! 

The  Arsenal,  with  its  immense  docks,  its  covered  ship- 
yards, in  which,  it  is  said,  a  galley  coidd  be  constructed, 
rigged,  equipped,  and  launched  upon  the  sea  in  one  day, 
recalls  to  us,  by  its  gloomy  abandonment,  that  of  Car- 
thagena  in  Spain,  so  active  in  the  times  of  the  Invincible 
Armada.  It  was  from  there  that  the  fleets  set  out  that 
were  to  conquer  Corfu,  Zante,  Cyprus,  Athens,  all  those 
rich  and  beautiful  isles  of  the  archipelago  ;  but  then 
Venice  was  Venice ;  and  the  Hon  of  Saint  Mark,  today 
dejected  and  defamed,  then  had  claws  and  teeth  like  the 
most  ferocioiLS  heraldic  monsters,  and  in  spite  of  the 
epigram  of  Goethe  made  a  haughty  and  triumphant 
figiu-e  on  the  blasonings. 

Our  excursion  to  Fusine  needed  two  rowers  ;  a  com- 
panion of  Antonio  joined  him.  A  bit  of  sail  was  even 
carried  in  order  to  secure  the  aid  of  the  wind,  which 
was  favorable. 

We  passed  between  Saint  George  and  the  point  of  the 
Giudecca,  whose  entire  length  we  traversed,  grazing  its 
gardens  full  of  vines  and  fruit  trees,  and  entered  the 
lagune  properly  so  called. 

The  sky  was  perfectly  clear,  and  the  hght  so  vivid 
that  the  water  shone  like  silver,  and  the  limits  of  the 
horizon  could  not  be  distinguished  from  the  sea.  The 
isles  seemed  like  little  brown  specks,  and  the  distant 
vessels  seemed  to  sail  in  the  open  sky.  The  power  of 
reasoning  was  really  necessary  in  order  to  persuade  one- 
self that  they  were  not  floating  in  the  air.  The  eye 
alone  would  surely  be  deceived.  The  viaduct  of  the 
railway,  a  gigantic  work  which  joins  Venice  to  the 
mainland,  and  which  we  discovered  far  off  on  the  right, 
afforded    a   singular  effect    of    mirage.     Its    numerous 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

arches,  repeated  by  the  calm,  blue  water,  with  the  ex- 
actitude of  the  purest  plate  glass,  formed  perfect  circles 
and  resembled  those  bizarre  Chinese  doors,  entirely 
round,  which  one  sees  on  screens;  in  a  way,  that 
architectural  fantasy  of  Pekin  seemed  to  have  built 
that  chimerical  avenue  for  the  City  of  the  Doges,  the 
silhouette  of  which,  serrated  with  numerous  bell-turrets, 
and  dominated  by  the  Campanile  surmounted  by  its 
angel  of  gold,  presented  itself  on  one  side  in  an  unex- 
pected and  picturesque  fashion. 

After  having  passed  a  fortified  islet,  having  on  its 
point  a  charming  statue  of  the  Madonna  and  a  very 
ugly  Austrian  sentinel,  we  followed  one  of  those  canals 
traced  in  the  lagune  by  a  double  row  of  posts  Avhich  in- 
dicate the  channels  where  the  water  is  sufficiently  deep ; 
for  the  lagune  is  a  species  of  salt  marsh  which  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  the  tide  keeps  from  becoming  stagnant,  but 
which  has  hardly  more  than  three  or  four  feet  of  water, 
except  in  certain  lanes  hollowed  out  by  nature  or  by 
man,  and  which  the  posts  to  which  we  have  referred 
designate.  Some  of  these  posts  carry  on  their  summits 
little  chapels  in  miniature,  rude  dyptichs  constructed  by 
the  piety  of  the  sailors  and  which  contain  images  and 
statuettes  of  the  Madonna.  The  gracious  protectress 
whom  the  Litany  calls  Stella  Maris,  the  Star  of  the  Sea, 
is  there  in  the  midst  of  her  element.  These  Madonnas 
in  the  water  have  something  pathetic  about  them.  As- 
suredly her  divinity  is  always  present,  and  her  protec- 
tion descends  from  the  sky  as  quickly  as  it  lifts  itself 
from  the  sea ;  but  this  pious  credulity  of  a  more  immedi- 
ate succor,  the  protectress  being  transported  into  the 
midst  of  the  peril,  has  something  about  it  of  the  infantile, 
the  charming,  and  the  poetic.  We  dearly  love  these 
Venetian  Madonnas,  corroded  by  the  salty  vapor  and 
lashed  by  the  wing  of  the  passing  gull,  and  we  willingly 
say  to  them:    ^^  Ave  3faria,  gratia  plena.''''     The  blue, 

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JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

line  of  the  Euganean  mountains  is  faintly  outlined  in 
front  of  us  by  the  tender  blue  of  the  sky,  rather  as  a 
vein  of  a  deeper  azure  than  as  a  terrestrial  reality. 

The  trees  and  houses  on  the  shore  which  can  already 
be  seen,  seem,  on  account  of  the  slope  of  the  sea,  to 
plunge  into  the  water  up  to  their  knees,  and  the  red 
bell-turrets  of  the  islets,  diminutives  of  the  Campanile, 
which  has  the  air  of  the  Burgrave  of  that  generation  of 
bell-turrets,  seem  to  break  forth  immediately  from  the 
waves  like  great  branches  of  coral. 

A  low-lying  land,  covered  with  confused  vegetation, 
was  before  us.  We  leaped  out  of  the  gondola.  We 
had  arrived  at  Fusine. 

It  is  at  Fusine  that  the  canals  of  Brenta  come  to  an  end, 
the  locality  where  Venice  sought  its  supply  of  water  to 
fill  its  cisterns,  before  the  artesian  wells  bored  by  M. 
Degous^e  with  rare  good  fortune,  abundantly  supplied 
it  with  a  clear  water,  limpid  and  sometimes  gaseous,  like 
that  of  which  we  drank  a  glass,  near  the  convent  of  the 
Capuchin  fathers,  at  the  Giudecca. 

The  ravages  of  war  are  not  yet  repaired  at  Fusine  ; 
some  houses  are  opened  to  the  wind  by  bullets,  some 
roofs  are  torn  off  by  shells ;  a  little  rustic  chapel  is  in- 
tact ;  perhaps  the  house  of  God  may  have  been  respected 
in  the  struggle,  perhaps  it  may  have  been  repaired  be- 
fore those  of  men. 

This  fertile,  moist  soil,  impregnated  with  sea  salts, 
made  thick  by  the  vegetable  detritus,  warmed  by  a  vivi- 
fying sun,  causes  to  increase  abundantly  in  the  desert 
and  the  solitude,  the  uncultivated  flora  of  those  charm- 
ing plants  called  weeds  because  they  are  free.  There  is 
a  little  virgin  forest  of  them;  the  wild  oat  waves  its 
bearded  stalk  on  the  border  of  the  ditches  ;  the  hemlock 
tosses  above  a  tuft  of  nettles  its  greenish-white  umbels ; 
the  wild  mallow  displays  its  curled  leaves  and  its  flow- 
ers of  a  pale  rose  ;  the  bind-weed  hangs  its  silvery  bell- 

[     201     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

flowers  on  the  branches  of  brambles  ;  in  the  midst  of 
the  grass,  which  mounts  to  j^oiir  knees,  scintillate  like 
sparlis  a  thousand  unnamed  little  flowers,  spangles  of 
gold,  of  azure,  or  of  j)i^i'pl^'  scattered  around  by  the 
Great  Colorist  in  order  to  break  the  uniform  tint  of 
green. 

On  the  banks  of  the  canals  the  water-lily  displays  its 
large  sticky  hearts  and  lifts  up  its  yellow  flowers  ;  the 
arrow-head  makes  its  lancehead  tremble  in  the  wind ; 
the  loosestrife  with  its  willow  leaves  incliHes  its  purple 
stalks ;  the  iris  brandishes  its  glaucous  poniards,  the 
ribboned  calamus,  the  flowering  rushes,  become  en- 
tangled in  a  bushy  and  picturesque  disorder.  Elders, 
hazels,  shrubs,  and  trees  which  no  one  prunes,  throw 
their  shadow,  pierced  by  the  sun,  upon  this  fertile 
disorder. 

Lizards,  lively,  alert,  wriggling  their  tails,  cross  the 
narrow  footpath.  Choirs  of  frogs  plunge  as  you  pass, 
with  a  simultaneous  leap,  under  the  grass  of  the  Brenta. 
A  beautiful  water-adder,  while  we  were  passing  along 
the  canal,  devoted  itself  fearlessly  to  the  most  graceful 
evolutions.  It  swam  rapidly,  its  head  erect,  making  its 
supple  body  undulate,  a  flash  of  sapphire  lightning  tra- 
versing the  silvery  water  ;  it  seemed  a  queen  playing  in 
her  domain  and  disquieting  herself  very  little  on  account 
of  our  presence.  She  barely  cast  towards  us  a  glance 
from  her  gemmed  eyes,  as  if  to  say,  "  AVhy  comes  this 
intruder  here  ?  "  It  was  the  first  time  in  our  life  that  a 
reptile  had  seemed  pretty  to  us.  Perhaps  this  charming 
adder  was  descended  in  a  curved  line  from  the  serpent 
who  seduced  Eve  by  the  grace  of  his  spiral  movements 
and  the  eloquence  of  .his  speech.  In  returning  we  found 
her  at  the  same  place,  parading  herself  like  a  coquette  and 
making  faces  of  Celimene  along  the  bank  in  order  to  beg 
a  look,  or,  what  is  more  likely,  to  attract  a  timid  lover 
crouching  under  the  water-cresses  or  in  the  reeds. 

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JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

Locks  and  dams,  picturesquely  placed,  hold  back  the 
water  at  stated  distances.  Light  brick  arches,  which 
serve  upon  occasion  for  buttresses  or  for  bridges,  fre- 
quently traverse  the  canal,  but  all  are  tottering,  half 
ruined,  invaded  by  vegetation  which  slips  into  the 
place  of  a  brick  or  a  stone  which  happens  to  fall,  already 
half  retaken  by  nature,  so  prompt  to  efface  the  work  of 
man.  This  abandonment  is  regrettable  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  engineer,  but  not  at  all  from  that  of  the 
poet  or  painter. 

This  uncultivated  corner  of  Fusine  gave  us  the  great- 
est pleasure,  and  remains  graven  in  our  mind  much  more 
clearly  than  localities  which  are  more  deserving.  Clos- 
ing our  eyes,  we  still  see  in  the  dark  chamber  of  mem- 
ory, although  a  year  already  separates  us  from  that  im- 
pression, the  veins  of  the  leaves,  the  shadows  of  the 
trees  passed  on  the  path,  the  honey-bees  rolling  in  the 
calyx  of  the  marshmallows,  a  thousand  little  insignifi- 
cant details  of  a  perfect  clearness. 

Probably  this  pleasing  effect  of  freshness  and  soli- 
tude was  responsible  for  our  sojourn  of  several  weeks  in 
Venice,  where  one  only  sees,  as  we  have  already  re- 
marked, marble,  sky,  and  water. 

Wearied  perhaps,  without  perceiving  it,  of  gliding  in  a 
gondola  upon  the  water,  or  on  foot  upon  the  polished 
flagstones  of  the  Place  of  Saint  Mark,  we  found  a  secret 
joy  in  pressing  the  naked  breast  of  the  mother  of  Cy- 
bele.  Saturated  with  art,  statues,  pictures,  palaces,  in- 
toxicated by  the  genius  of  man,  we  were  impelled,  by  a 
reaction  in  favor  of  nature,  to  find  charming  this  bit  of 
earth  abandoned  to  the  luxuriance  of  a  wild  vegetation. 
We  who  respect  life  to  the  point  of  not  gathering  a  single 
flower,  had  plucked  enormous  bouquets  and  masses  of 
foliage  in  order  to  carry  them  to  the  Campo  San  Mose. 

In  returning  the  gondolier  took  us  through  streets  of 
water  that  we  were  yet  unacquainted  with.     Cities  in 

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JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

decadence  are  like  bodies  which  are  dying ;  life,  taking 
refuge  in  the  heart,  abandons  little  by  httle  the  extrem- 
ities ;  some  streets  are  depopulated,  some  quarters  be- 
come deserted,  the  blood  has  no  longer  the  force  to  go 
to  the  end  of  the  veins.  The  entrance  into  Venice,  com- 
ing from  Fusine,  is  of  a  heart-breaking  melancholy.  A 
few  row-boats,  bringing  goods  from  the  mainland,  glide 
silently  upon  the  sleeping  water  past  deserted  houses. 
Palaces  of  a  charming  architecture  no  longer  have  win- 
dows, and  the  bays  are  closed  by  planks  roughly  placed 
across  them  ;  the  rough-coating  of  the  abandoned  houses 
is  scaling  off,  the  moss  spreads  its  green  carpet  on  the 
lower  strata,  shell-fish  and  marine  plants  incrust  the 
stairways,  which  the  crab  alone  ascends  to-day. 

From  the  windows  of  the  infrequently  inhabited 
houses  hang  rags  and  tatters,  Hnen  hung  out  to  dry 
alone  indicating  the  life  of  the  impoverished  household 
which  has  sought  a  refuge  there. 

Here  and  there  a  grating  magnificently  worked,  a  bal- 
cony with  comphcated  scroll-work,  a  corroded  coat-of- 
arms,  columnettes  of  marble,  a  sculptured  cornice  on  a 
wall,  cracked,  blackened,  dilapidated  for  want  of  care, 
reveal  an  ancient  splendor,  the  palace  of  a  patrician 
family  which  has  become  extinct  or  fallen  into  poverty. 

In  proportion  as  we  advance,  this  sorrowful  impres- 
sion is  dissii3ated ;  life  returns  little  by  little,  and  with 
pleasure  one  finds  himself  in  the  animation  of  the  Grand 
Canal  or  the  Place  Saint  Mark. 

The  time  at  Fusine  had  seemed  short  to  us  ;  yet  it 
was  already  the  hour  for  dinner.  The  crabs,  which 
multiply  abundantly  in  the  canals,  were  beginning  to 
lift  above  the  line  traced  by  the  water  at  the  foot 
of  the  houses  their  hideous  bodies  and  long,  hooked 
pincers,  a  manoeuvre  which  they  execute  every  day  at 
six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  with  the  punctuality  of  a 
chronometer. 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

We  went  to  dine  that  clay  at  the  Campo  San  Gallo,  a 
place  situated  behind  the  Piazza,  in  a  German  gastliof, 
where  we  refreshed  ourselves  with  some  viiii  nostrani^ 
black  as  the  juice  of  the  mulberry  and  with  a  scliop;pen 
of  Munich  beer. 

We  took  our  refreshments  in  the  open  air,  under  a 
tent  striped  with  white  and  saffron  bands,  side  by  side 
with  French  painters,  German  artists,  and  Austrian  of- 
ficers, small,  young  persons,  blonde,  slender,  well-groomed 
in  elegant  uniforms,  very  polite,  very  well-bred,  with  the 
physiognomy  of  Werther,  and  in  no  wise  having  soldiers' 
manners.  The  conversation  was  generally  aesthetic,  in- 
terrupted now  and  then  by  one  of  those  complicated  and 
labored  pleasantries,  memories  of  Jena,  of  Bonn,  or  of 
Heidelberg.  The  inclined  cap  of  the  maison-rnoussue 
reappeared  in  the  form  of  the  military  shako. 

In  the  middle  of  the  Campo  the  curb  of  a  cistern 
raised  itself,  where  the  women  of  the  neighborhood  and 
the  Styrian  water-carriers  came  to  draw  water  at  cer- 
tain hours  ;  at  the  end  was  a  little  church  blazoned  with 
the  arms  of  the  Patriarch  of  Venice,  and  from  the  door 
of  which,  closed  by  a  red  curtain,  vague  odors  of  in- 
cense mingled  with  the  fumes  of  the  cooking  of  the 
gastJiof,  and  murmurs  of  prayers  and  of  organ  with  the 
discussion  of  art  and  philosophy.  From  time  to  time  a 
few  old  women,  their  heads  enshrouded  in  black  hoods, 
like  bats  cowled  by  their  wings,  raised  the  portiere  and 
entered  the  church.  Young  girls  with  their  hair  only 
as  covering  for  their  heads,  draped  in  shawls  of  glaring 
colors,  passed  by,  fans  in  hand,  a  smile  on  their  lips, 
repressing  gracefully  their  flying  skirts,  and,  instead  of 
entering  the  church,  took  the  little  lane  which  leads 
from  the  Campo  San  Gallo  to  the  Piazza.  They  will 
enter  the  church  later  when  God  only  remains  for  them 
to  love, —  God,  that  last  passion  of  women. 

There  passed  also  some  fat  ecclesiastics  with  honest 
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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

and  jovial  countenances,  betaking  themselves  to  the 
Salute  or  to  some  evening  office.  They  wore  violet 
stockings  Hke  bishops,  and  red  scarfs  like  cardinals, 
which  is  a  privilege,  we  were  told,  of  the  diocese  of  Saint 
Mark,  the  patriarchal  metropolis. 

Opposite  the  gasthof,  a  house  of  modest  appearance 
made  itself  noticeable  by  a  marble  placque  bearing  a 
Latin  inscription.  It  was  in  this  house  that  Canova 
died.  The  inscription  is  beautiful  and  touching,  and 
we  cannot  resist  the  pleasure  of  repeating  it  here  :  "  Has 
aedes  Francesconiorum  quas  lautiorihus  hosjntiis  oh  ve- 
teris  amiciticc  candirem  prcetulerat,  Canova,  sculptural 
facile  princeps,  supremo  halitu  consecravit.'''  This  may 
be  translated  for  the  benefit  of  the  women  who  do  not 
understand  Latin  and  for  the  men  who  have  forgotten  it : 
"This  house  of  the  Francesconi,  which  he  had  preferred 
to  more  sumptuous  hospitalities,  by  reason  of  the  purity 
of  an  old  friendship,  Canova,  easily  first  of  sculptors, 
has  consecrated  by  his  last  breath." 

We  ask  pardon  for  this  somewhat  barbarous  transla- 
tion, but  it  at  least  renders  with  exactness  the  lapidary 
form  of  the  inscription.  This  is  not  the  place  to  speak 
more  at  length  of  Canova,  who  made  his  debut  in  Venice 
by  the  exhibition  of  his  group  of  Dedalus  and  Icarus  at 
the  Sensa  (festival  of  the  Ascension)  while  yet  an  obscure 
pupil  of  the  sculptor  Toretti.  We  shall  have  occasion 
to  return  to 'his  works  at  Rome  and  at  Florence. 

To  this  house  of  the  Francesconi,  so  nobly  preferred 
to  palaces,  is  attached  for  us  a  puerile  recollection ;  in 
real  life  the  comic  goes  hand  in  hand  with  the  pathetic. 
The  little  dog  of  the  house,  which  went  to  frolic  on  the 
Campo,  or  in  the  neighboring  lanes,  returned  at  this  hour, 
that  of  the  family  repast  probably,  and  often  found  the 
door  closed.  He  whined  piteously  on  tlie  threshold,  but 
sometimes  it  was  not  opened  for  him  —  either  the  serv- 
ants, heedless,  did  not  hear  him,  or  it  may  be,  did  not 

[     20G     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

wish  to  let  him  enter  for  punishment.  One  day,  touched 
by  his  distress,  we  went  and  pulled  the  bell-cord  for  him, 
and  returned  to  our  table.  A  girl  appeared,  greatly  sur- 
prised to  see  no  one  at  the  door,  and  the  dog  entered 
with  his  tail  lowered,  half  crawling  upon  his  stomach, 
like  a  dog  who  was  at  fault. 

He  did  not  forget  this  service,  and  each  time  that  he 
found  himself  in  the  same  plight,  he  looked  at  me  with 
a  melancholy  and  suppliant  air,  which  it  was  impossible 
to  resist.  A  tacit  accord  was  established  between  the 
quadruped  and  the  biped.  He  gratified  us  with  an 
amiable  look  and  a  wag  of  the  tail,  in  compensation  for 
the  service  of  pidling  the  bell-cord.  It  was  thus  we 
found  ourselves  connected  with  the  honest  dog  of  the 
house  of  Francesconi,  and  his  memory  is  mixed  up  in 
our  mind  with  that  of  Canova. 

After  having  dispatched  our  modest  repast,  composed 
of  sea-louse  soup,  a  veal  steak  (no  others  are  eaten  in 
Italy),  a  pudding  of  polenta,  and  stuffed  sweets,  taken 
our  cup  of  coffee  at  the  Florian,  and  read  the  Journal 
des  Dehats,  the  only  French  paper  allowed  in  these  des- 
potic states,  seeing  nothing  of  interest  on  the  theatre 
bills  with  which  the  arcades  of  the  Procuraties  are  pla- 
carded, we  concluded  to  stroll  through  the  streets  at 
haphazard,  which  is  the  only  method  of  entering  into 
the  familiar  life  of  the  people,  for  books  tell  only  of  the 
monuments  and  of  remarkable  things,  putting  aside  all 
the  characteristic  details  and  the  thousand  and  one  almost 
imperceptible  differences  which  call  our  attention  to  the 
fact  that  we  have  changed  our  country. 

A  big  placard  posted  at  the  bottom  of  the  Place  Saint 
Mark,  and  on  the  corner  of  the  Ducal  Palace  near  the 
Bridge  of  the  Paille,  where  all  Venice  passes  in  going 
to  walk  on  the  Bank  of  the  Slaves,  promised  in  gigantic 
lettering  and  ferocious  engravings,  a  wonderful  and  in- 
credible show.  The  bill  alone  would  frighten  one.  It 
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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

was  a  great  mimodrame  of  the  kind  played  with  us  at 
the  Olympic  Circus,  and  which  those  industrious  annalists 
Laloue  and  Labrousse  compose,  the  historiographers  with 
powder  and  ball  of  the  imperial  epic :  Napoleon  in  Egypt  1 
But  the  prodigious  part  of  the  spectacle  consisted  of  a 
Pyrrhic  dance,  danced  by  the  whole  French  army  around 
the  First  Consul.  Behold  here  the  French  army  and  the 
Institute  dancing  a  Pyrrhic  around  the  Bonaparte  of 
Auguste  Barbier! 

"  O  Corse  a  cheveux  plats!  " 

A  drawing  in  barbarous  taste  accompanied  the  bill. 
Bonaparte,  in  the  stiff  costume  of  the  Guides,  received 
the  Ulemas  of  Cairo,  humbly  prostrated  in  their  cafe- 
tans,  and  Turks  in  Siberian  pelisses  offering  him,  in  con- 
formity with  ancient  usage,  the  keys  of  Cairo  on  a  bar- 
ber's basin ;  a  staff  officer,  breeched  in  pantaloons 
braided  with  ornaments  of  fine  gold,  and  shod  with 
boots  d  la  Souvarow,  stands  behind  the  General-in-chief. 
Between  the  embrasures  of  the  towers,  negroes  acting 
as  sentinels  could  be  seen  passing  with  haggard  eye. 
This  engraving  recalled  vaguely,  by  the  savagery  of  the 
drawing  and  the  Gothic  crudity  of  the  coloring,  the 
sketches  by  Epinal  and  the  engravings  by  the  four  sons 
of  Aymon  in  the  editions  of  the  Blue  Library. 

We  did  not  fail,  as  you  may  imagine,  to  betake  our- 
selves to  this  show.  At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
the  hour  announced  for  the  performance,  we  entered  our 
gondola.  The  gondola  is,  as  everyone  knows,  the  car- 
riage of  Venice,  where  one  travels,  not  on  foot,  but  by 
water.  The  play  was  at  the  Theatre  Malibran. 
Stretched  on  the  crumpled  black  leather  cushions  of  our 
gondola,  we  were  carried  over  the  canals  by  two  vigor- 
ous oars,  an  agreeable  method  of  traveling.  The  sun 
had  gone  down ;  we  were  upon  water  black  as  that 
of    Lethe.     From    time    to    time    as  we    passed   under 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

bridges,  a  few  gas-lamps  launched  sudden  glimmerings 
which  streak  the  canal  with  light ;  then  turning  a  cor- 
ner, the  black  begins  again,  and  again  we  are  plunged 
in  the  shadow, —  the  shadow  of  night,  the  shadow  of 
the  water, —  grazing  lightly  the  palaces  from  which  so 
many  sombre  stories  have  taken  flight,  from  whence  the 
great  families  inscribed  in  the  Book  of  Gold  of  the  most 
serene  Repubhc  have  departed  for  the  last  and  eternal 
journey  of  the  tomb. 

Finally  our  gondola  approaches  a  landing.  The 
rowers  raise  their  oars  and  we  are  made  fast  to  a  ring 
secured  to  the  bank.  A  long  line  of  gondolas,  ranged 
in  procession,  await  the  spectators.  We  issue  forth  and 
cross  the  bridge  which  leads  to  the  Theatre  Malibran. 
These  water-carriages  gathered  under  a  bridge  produce 
a  singular  effect,  for  it  is  not  our  custom  to  go  to  the 
opei'a  or  to  the  circus  by  boat. 

One  enters  the  theatre  by  a  long,  arched  corridor, 
which  resembles  in  its  splendor  the  Radziwill  passage- 
way. Odd-looking  lamps  hung  upon  the  wall  give  light 
to  this  narrow  passage.  Securing  a  place  is  a  long  op- 
eration, and  we  had  to  pass  through  several  ticket  offices 
before  entering  our  box.  The  first  one  gives  the  right 
of  entrance,  the  second  a  special  seat.  Fortified  by  the 
supreme  and  sacramental  ticket,  we  enter  into  our  box. 
In  Italy  the  arrangement  of  the  boxes  is  different  from 
what  we  are  accustomed  to  in  France.  The  seats,  in- 
stead of  facing  the  stage,  are  along  the  sides,  somewhat 
like  those  of  an  omnibus,  those  on  the  left  being  reserved 
for  ladies  or  for  distinguished  personages  to  whom  it  is 
desired  to  show  honor  or  politeness. 

The  hall  was  very  dimly  hghted,  and  we  saw  tossing 
beneath  us  m  the  parterre  and  orchestra,  a  tumult  of 
heads,  the  silhouettes  of  which  were  vaguely  discernible. 
A  dark  room,  with  its  weird  microcosm,  conveys  an  idea 
of  it.  This  darkness  was  caused  by  the  absence  of  a 
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JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

chandelier.  The  ceiUng  was  lacldng,  and  the  parterre  saw 
the  play  by  the  pure  light  of  the  stars,  sub  Jove  crudo. 
We  have  already  mentioned  this  arrangement  in  connec- 
tion with  the  theatre  at  Milan,  and  we  will  not  recur  to  it. 
The  footlights  sufficed  to  illuminate  the  actors  and,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  provided  the  stage  be  lighted,  it  is  sufficient. 
A  dimly  lighted  hall  has  in  itself  something  of  the  more 
mysterious  and  the  more  fantastic,  and  prevents  the  atten- 
tion from  being  distracted  by  the  women,  the  toilets,  and 
the  incidents  of  the  hall.  The  less  one  sees  of  the  hall 
the  more  one  is  a  spectator  of  the  play. 

A  French  officer  has  fallen  into  the  power  of  the 
people  of  jNIourad-Bey  and  is  shut  up  in  the  seraglio, 
but  as  he  is  a  Frenchman,  an  officer,  and  is  twenty 
years  of  age,  he  very  soon  puts  upon  the  skewer  the 
hearts  of  all  the  women.  The  Zoraides  and  the  Ziilmi 
protect  him.  Meanwhile  there  is  discord  in  the  camp 
of  Agramant ;  some  wish  to  surrender  the  city ;  others 
wish  to  fight.     There  is  a  great  dispute  at  the  seraglio. 

Some  rogues  with  turbans  on  their  heads,  and  who 
seem  to  have  plunged  their  heads  into  pastry  moulds,  pa- 
rade around  and  swear  to  avenge  Mahomet.  The 
Muftis  with  their  arms  crossed  upon  their  breasts, 
preach  the  Holy  War.  The  destruction  of  the  General- 
in-chief  of  the  French  Army  is  decreed ;  it  is  a  Mussul- 
man of  the  most  beautiful  species,  his  girdle  loaded 
with  yatagans  and  candjiars,  who  takes  upon  himself  the 
sinister  task.  An  idiot  of  an  eunuch,  a  voluptuous  gor- 
mandizer, and  a  poltroon  also  take  part  in  the  action. 

In  the  following  act  we  are  in  the  French  camp. 
Bonaparte  appears  with  a  formidable  staff.  It  is  the 
First  Consul  disguised  as  Emperor,  by  an  anachronism 
permissible  in  Venice.  He  is  encased  in  top  boots,  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  his  waistcoat  transformed  into 
the  historic  snuff-box.  He  gives  orders,  displays  maps, 
and  pinches  famiharly  the  ears  of  the  soldiers.     There- 

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JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

upon  the  Mussulman  with  his  long  beard  arrives  to  hand 
him  a  petition;  but  it  is  here  that  he  raises  against  the 
General  a  knife  three  feet  long  in  order  to  assassinate 
him,  as  was  done  to  the  conqueror  of  Ptolemais,  by  Kle- 
ber.  Fortunately  the  assassin  is  arrested.  Bonaparte 
pardons  him  and  attaches  him  to  himself  by  a  long  ha- 
rangue in  Arabic,  delivered  in  Pindaric  tone.  The  mus- 
tached  and  bearded  Mussulman  swears  that  he  will  die 
for  the  General-in-chief,  and  the  battle  begins. 

The  outskirts  burn,  the  city  burns,  the  seraglio  burns, 
—  never  was  there  seen  such  a  conflagration.  The 
Muftis  weep,  their  arms  always  folded,  and  the  soldiers, 
throwing  away  theii"  arms,  weep  under  their  pastry- 
moulds.  It  is  only  the  women  clothed  in  light  scarfs 
who  do  not  weep.  In  Egypt  it  is  the  women  who  are 
the  men.  The  French  officer  comes  forth  from  a  trunk 
where  love  has  hidden  him :  he  takes  the  seraglio,  he 
combats  the  Sultan  Mourad-Bey,  and  he  triumphs  all 
along  the  line  and  in  the  great  struggle  for  the  flag. 

Finally  Bonaparte  arrives,  followed  by  his  inevitable 
staff;  he  pardons  everybody,  lifts  his  eyes  to  Heaven, 
and  takes  a  pinch  of  snuff,  thinking  of  the  great  Fred- 
erick who  is  no  more,  and  of  the  18th  Brumaire,  which 
is  not  yet. 

Thereupon  the  French  army  is  beside  itself  for  joy, 
and  dances,  even  as  the  programme  said,  a  flamboyant 
Pyrrhic  around  its  general.  The  drum  beats  the  reveille, 
the  muskets  are  decked  with  bouquets,  and  everybody 
shouts  for  joy.  To  terminate  the  festival  the  bantering 
drummers  sing  a  patriotic  refrain  which  is  drowned  in 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  audience,  and  the  curtain  falls. 

We  forgot  to  mention  that  there  were  Hungarian  sol- 
diers in  white  jackets  and  blue  pantaloons,  who  repre- 
sented the  French  army,  for  the  greater  historic  fidelity. 

We  regain  our  gondola  and  go  for  a  tour  on  the  Piaz- 
etta  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

[     211     ] 


MXiaTMaMMlBMaaMMMBMH'aM 

CHAPTER    XVII 
THE    FINE    ARTS 


AT  the  entrance  to  the  Grand  Canal,  alongside  the 
white  Church  of  La  Salute,  and  opposite  to  the 
red  houses  of  the  Campo  of  San  Vital,  a  point  of 
view  illustrated  by  the  masterpiece  of  Canaletto,  rises 
the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  where  by  the  efforts  of  the 
late  Count  Leopold  Cicognara  have  been  brought  to- 
gether a  great  number  of  treasures  of  the  Venetian 
school. 

The  architecture  of  the  fa9ade  is  that  of  Giorgio 
Massani,  and  a  Minerva  seated  on  a  lion,  by  the  sculptor 
Giacarelli,  decorates  the  attic  stor}*.  This  piece  pleases 
us  moderately  only.  The  Minerva  is  a  big  girl  of  robust 
attractions,  in  a  breastplate,  who  in  no  wise  resembles 
the  ideal  figure  coming  forth  fully  armed  from  the  head 
of  Jupiter.  Her  mount,  treated  in  the  silly  style  of  the 
lions  in  perukes  a  la  Louis  XIV,  an  example  of  which 
one  sees  on  the  terrace  of  the  Tuileries  holding  a  ball 
under  its  paws,  has  an  air  somewhat  like  a  poodle  dog, 
in  the  midst  of  that  crowd  of  clawed,  winged,  armed, 
and  nimbused  lions,  of  fierce  figure,  and  of  imposing, 
heraldic  bearing,  which  accompanies  Saint  Mark  on 
all  the  edifices  of  Venice.  Possibly  this  well-meaning 
lion  does  not  wish  to  frighten  the  visitors  by  a  too  truc- 
ulent mien  and  has  made  himself  benign  of  aspect 
designedly. 

When  one  thinks  of  the  Venetian  school,  three  names 
present  themselves  irresistibly  to  the  mind  :  Titian,  Paul 
Veronese,  Tintoretto.  They  seem  to  have  been  brought 
forth  suddenly  from  the  azure  of  the  seas  under  a  warm 
ray  of  sunlight,  like  spontaneous  flowers.  Alongside 
[     212     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

of  them  Jean  Bellin  and  Giorgione  range  themselves, 
and  that  is  all. 

We  are  speaking  here  of  the  public  and  of  ordinary- 
amateurs  who  have  never  seen  Italy  or  made  a  special 
study  of  the  paintings  of  Venice.  There  is  in  existence, 
however,  a  whole  series  of  almost  unknown  artists,  but 
admirable  ones,  who  preceded  the  great  names  that  we 
have  cited,  as  Aurora  goes  before  the  dawn,  less  brilhant, 
but  more  tender,  more  fresh.  These  Gothic  Venetians 
join  to  all  the  innocent  finesse,  to  all  the  unction,  to  all  the 
suavity  of  Giotto,  of  Perugino,  or  of  Hemling,  an  ele- 
gance, a  beauty,  and  a  richness  of  color  to  which  the 
latter  never  attained.  It  is  a  singular  thing  that  the 
paintings  of  the  colorists  have  almost  all  turned  black, 
the  harmony  of  the  tints  being  lost  under  smoky  var- 
nishes ;  the  glazings  have  taken  to  themselves  wings 
and  flown  away,  while  the  works  of  the  draughtsmen, 
with  their  timid  and  circumstantial  execution,  their  ab- 
sence of  imposting,  wholly  simple  local  tone,  preserve 
an  incomparable  splendor  and  youthfulness.  These 
panels  and  canvases,  anterior  often  by  more  than  a  hun- 
dred years  to  the  more  celebrated  pictures,  would  seem, 
were  it  not  for  the  style  which  fixes  their  date,  to  have 
been  executed  yesterday ;  they  still  have  all  the  flower 
of  their  newness ;  the  centuries  have  passed  by  them 
without  leaving  any  trace.  Not  a  single  retouching  is 
necessary.  Is  this  due  to  the  fact  that  the  colors  em- 
ployed were  more  pure,  chemistry  not  being  sufiicientl}^ 
advanced  to  adulterate  them  or  to  invent  new  ones  of 
an  uncertain  effect  and  of  a  problematical  duration? 
Or  have  the  tones,  allowed  to  remain  almost  .virginal  as 
in  engraving,  preserved  the  same  value  which  they  had 
on  the  palette?  This  is  a  question  which  we  cannot 
decide  ;  but  this  remark,  more  noticeable  here,  may  be 
applied  to  all  schools  which  preceded  that  which  is 
called  the  Renaissance  of   Art.     The  more    ancient  a 

[     213     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

painting  is,  the  better  it  is  preserved ;  a  Vaix  Eyck  is 
fresher  than  a  Van  Dyck ;  an  Andrea  Mantegna  than  a 
Raphael,  and  an  Antoine  de  ]\Iurano  than  a  Tintoretto. 
The  same  difference  is  also  to  be  noted  among  the  fres- 
cos :  the  more  modern  are  the  more  decayed.  We  were 
prepared  in  some  degree  by  the  pictures  distributed 
throughout  the  galleries  of  France,  of  Spain,  of  England, 
of  Belgium,  and  of  Holland,  for  the  marvels  of  Titian, 
of  Paul  Veronese,  and  of  Tintoretto.  These  great  men 
have  not  deceived  us.  They  have  faithfully  kept  all 
the  promises  of  their  genius,  but  we  expected  them  to 
do  so ;  on  the  other  hand,  we  have  experienced  a  de- 
lightful surprise  in  beholding  the  works,  little  known 
outside  of  Venice,  of  Jean  and  of  Gentil  Bellin,  of 
Basaiti,  of  Marco  Roccone,  of  Mansueti,  of  Carpaccio, 
and  of  others,  a  list  of  whom  would  degenerate  into  a 
catalogue.  It  was  altogether  a  new  world  ;  to  find  the 
Venetian  eclat  in  Gothic  simplicity,  the  beauty  of  the 
South  in  the  somewhat  rigid  form  of  the  North,  Hol- 
beins  as  finely  colored  as  Giorgiones,  Lucas  Cranachs  as 
elegant  as  Raphaels,  was  rare  good  fortune,  and  we  have 
been  more  sensible  of  it  perhaps  than  was  necessary ; 
since,  in  the  first  glow  of  enthusiasm,  we  were  not  far 
from  looking  upon  the  illustrious  masters,  the  eternal 
glory  of  the  Venetian  school,  as  corruptors  of  taste  and 
great  men  of  the  Decadence,  somewhat  similar  to  the 
German  neo-Christians  who  shut  out  Raphael  from  the 
Paradise  of  Cathohc  painters  as  too  sensual  and  too 
pagan. 

For  several  days  we  have  had  their  names  on  our  lips ; 
for  when  one  has  made  a  discovery  in  art  one  cannot 
avoid  imitating  La  Fontaine  by  stopping  people  on  the 
street   and  asking  them,    "Have    you  read  Baruch?" 

If  we  were  writing  a  history  of  Venetian  painting  and 
not  a  description  of  travels,  we  should  begin  with  Nic- 
olas Semitecolo,  the  earliest  of  all,  who  dates  back  to 

[     214     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

1370,  and  we  should  descend  chronologically  to  Fran- 
cesco Zencharelli,  the  last  in  point  of  time,  who  died  in 
1790  ;  but  the  gallery  is  not  so  arranged,  and  this  pro- 
gram, which  ought  to  be  followed  throughout,  would 
not  accord  with  the  actual  places  which  the  paintings 
occupy,  as  they  are  hung  only  with  regard  to  their  di- 
mensions. We  will  proceed  room  by  room  and  the  eye 
can  follow  our  descriptions  upon  the  wall  as  upon  the 
page. 

The  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  as  is  known,  occupies  the 
old  Scuola  delict  Caritd.  There  remains  of  the  primitive 
decoration  a  very  beautiful  ceihng  in  the  first  room. 
This  ceiling,  divided  into  sections  adorned  with  cher- 
ubim in  the  act  of  spreading  their  wings,  has  its  little 
legend  :  A  member  of  the  brotherhood  took  upon  him- 
self the  task  of  gilding  the  room  at  his  own  expense, 
asking  as  a  recompense  that  his  name  should  be  in- 
scribed as  donor.  This  satisfaction  was  refused  him. 
Brother  Cherubin  Ottale  nevertheless  did  what  he  had 
promised  to  perform ;  but  he  took  care  to  sign  his  gift 
by  an  ingenious  ornamental  rebus.  Ottale,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Venice^  signifies  "  eight  wings."  A  head  of  a 
cherub,  with  a  neck-handlcerchief  of  eight  wings,  there- 
fore represented  hieroglyphically  the  Christian  name 
and  the  surname  of  the  conceited  bourgeois  who  thus 
succeeded  in  making  himself  known  to  posterity,  a  vain- 
gloriousness  easily  pardonable,  since  the  ceiling  is  very 
rich,  of  an  exquisite  taste,  and  drew  from  the  purse  of 
the  brother  a  great  many  golden  sequins. 

This  room  is  the  square  salon,  the  gallery  of  the 
Academy  of  Fine  Arts ;  it  is  the  casket  in  which  are 
arranged,  in  the  most  favorable  order,  the  purest  dia- 
monds, the  Kohinoors,  the  Grand  Moguls,  the  Regent 
and  the  Sancys  of  that  rich  Venetian  mine,  whose  veins 
have  furnished  so  many  precious,  picturesque  jewels. 

Each  great  master  of  Venice  has  there  a  superior 
[     215     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

sample  of  liis  talent,  tlie  masterpiece  of  his  masterpieces, 
one  of  those  supreme  pages  in  which  genius  and  talent, 
inspiration  and  skill  are  found,  in  proportion  difficult  to 
be  met  with  again ;  a  rare  conjunction  even  in  the  life 
of  sovereign  artists.  On  that  occasion  the  hand  was 
able  to  perform  what  the  brain  willed  it  to  do,  as  in  that 
passage  of  Dante  where  he  says  :  "  Ou  Von  i)eut  cc  qiioii 
veut.'''' 

The  "Calling  of  the  Sons  of  Zebedee  to  the  Apos- 
tolate,"  by  Marco  Basaiti,  approaches  closely  the  Ger- 
man school  in  the  simplicity  of  its  details,  the  slightly 
sad  softness  of  tone,  and  a  certain  melancholy  not 
habitual  with  the  Italian  school.  The  master  of  Nur- 
emburg  would  not  disown  that  landscape,  at  once  fan- 
tastic and  real,  those  Gothic  castles,  with  little  towers 
like  pepper-boxes,  with  drawbridges  and  barbicans  on 
the  shore  of  the  Lake  of  Tiberias,  and  a  fisherman  of 
Chioggia  or  of  the  Murazzi  would  find  nothing  to  criti- 
cise in  that  P  :;ote  or  in  those  nets,  humbly  and  faithfully 
studied  ;  the  Christ  has  unction  and  suavity,  the  features 
of  the  two  future  apostles,  who  are  quitting  their  busi- 
ness of  catching  fish  to  become  fishers  of  men,  breathe 
the  most  lively  faith. 

We  must  also  stop  before  the  "  Saint  Francis  Receiving 
the  Stigmata,"  of  Francesco  Beccarucci  de  Conegliano. 
This  is  a  very  beautiful  thing.  The  composition  is  di- 
vided into  two  zones :  the  upper  zone,  in  which  the 
Saint  is  seen  stretching  forth  his  hand  to  the  Divine 
imprints,  a  glorious  resemblance  to  the  Saviour,  who 
appreciates  his  devotion  to  Him ;  and  the  lower  zone, 
peopled  with  saints  and  the  blessed,  the  majority  being 
members  of  the  order  and  appearing  to  rejoice  in  the 
miracle.  There  are  beautiful  ascetic  heads  in  it,  a  pro- 
found religious  sentiment,  and  a  perfect  execution,  al- 
though it  may  be  a  trifle  hard.  When  one  regards 
attentively  these  Gothic  pictures  of  a  cold  and  restrained 
[     216     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

aspect,  little  by  little  they  become  animated,  and  end  by 
assuming  a  power  of  life  that  is  extraordinary  ;  never- 
theless they  show  neither  great  anatomical  knowledge 
nor  a  redundance  of  muscles  nor  of  flesh.  Their  per- 
sonages have  the  embarrassed  air  of  timid  folk  who  wish 
very  much  to  speak  to  you  but  do  not  dare ;  their  ges- 
tures are  often  awkward,  but  their  expression  is  so  be- 
nevolent, so  mild  and  so  childishl}^  sincere,  that  one 
understands  them  instantly,  and  they  remain  irresistibly 
fixed  in  your  memory.  It  is  for  this  reason  that,  under 
their  awkward  manner,  they  possess  one  little  thing  that 
the  masterpieces  of  cleverness  lack  —  a  soul. 

We  are  free  to  confess  that  we  have  a  horror  of  the 
Bassans,  great  and  small.  The  everlasting  pictures  of 
animals  of  their  manufacture  are  scattered  throughout 
the  whole  of  Europe,  and  tiresome  paintings  of  trifling 
subjects  mechanically  reproduced,  more  than  warrants 
this  aversion.  Still,  Ave  must  agree  that  the  "  Resurrec- 
tion of  Lazarus,"  by  Leander  Bassan,  is  better  than  the 
entering  and  coming  forth  from  the  Ark,  the  sheepfolds 
and  rustic  parks,  the  hind-quarters  of  sheep,  and  the 
stooping  woman  in  the  red  petticoat,  which  are  the  de- 
spair of  all  the  visitors  of  the  gallery. 

We  note  also,  the  "  Marriage  of  Cana,"  by  the  Pad- 
uan, —  a  grand  and  beautiful  arrangement,  wisely  exe- 
cuted, a  canvas  praiseworthy  in  every  respect,  and  which 
anywhere  else  would  be  considered  a  masterpiece  ;  then 
we  come  to  a  peculiar  painting  by  Paris  Bordone,  whose 
magnificent  portrait  of  a  man  clothed  in  black  in  the 
gallery  of  the  Louvre,  not  far  from  a  man  with  a  red 
beard  and  wearing  buff  gloves,  has  been  admired  by 
every  one,  and  which,  after  having  been  attributed  to 
several  great  masters,  seems  to  have  been  definitely  as- 
signed to  Calchar. 

This  painting,  which  represents  a  gondolier  delivering 
the  ring  of  Saint  Mark  to  the  Doge,  deals  with  a  legend, 
[     217     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

an  episode  of  which  Giorgione,  as  we  shall  see  in  the 
following  room,  has  painted  in  quite  a  bizarre  manner. 
Here  is  the  story  in  few  words :  One  night  while  the 
gondolier  was  asleep  in  his  boat,  waiting  for  a  job  at 
the  landing-place  of  Saint  George  Majeur,  three  mys- 
terious individuals  leaped  into  his  gondola  and  com- 
manded him  to  conduct  them  to  the  Lido ;  one  of  the 
personages,  in  so  far  as  he  could  distinguish  him  through 
the  shadows,  had  the  beard  of  an  apostle  and  the  features 
of  a  high  dignitary  of  the  Church ;  the  two  others  re- 
vealed themselves,  by  the  rattling  of  arms  under  their 
cloaks,  as  noblemen.  The  gondolier  turned  the  prow  of 
his  gondola  in  the  direction  of  the  Lido  and  began  to 
row ;  but  the  lagune,  which  had  been  tranquil  on  his 
departure,  began  to  swell  strangel}^ ;  the  waves  shone 
with  sinister  lights,  monstrous  apparitions  outlined  them- 
selves menacingly  around  the  boat,  to  the  great  terror 
of  the  gondolier ;  hideous  larvsB,  devils,  part  men  and 
part  fish,  seemed  to  swim  from  tlie  Lido  toward  Venice, 
causing  streams  of  thousands  of  sparlvs  to  burst  forth, 
arousing  a  tempest,  hissing  and  whistling  around  them ; 
but  the  aspect  of  the  flaming  swords  of  the  chevaliers 
and  the  outstretched  hand  of  the  holy  personage  caused 
them  to  recoil  and  to  vanish  in  sulphurous  explosions. 
This  battle  lasted  a  long  time  ;  new  demons  contin- 
ually succeeded  the  previous  ones  ;  nevertheless,  the 
victory  rested  with  the  personages  in  the  gondola,  who 
had  themselves  taken  back  to  the  landing-place  of  the 
Piazctta.  The  gondoher  did  not  know  what  to  think  of 
the  strange  performances  ;  finally,  at  the  moment  of 
separation,  the  oldest  of  the  three,  suddenly  causing  his 
nimbus  of  gold  to  shine  brightly,  said  to  the  gondolier, 
"  I  am  Saint  Mark,  the  Patron  of  Venice.  I  learned 
to-night  that  the  devils,  assembled  in  council  at  the 
Lido,  in  the  cemetery  of  the  Jews,  had  determined  to 
arouse  a  frightful  tempest  and  overthrow  my  beloved 

[     218     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

city,  under  the  pretext  that  many  dissohite  acts  are 
committed  there,  which  give  power  to  evil  spirits  over 
its  inhabitants ;  but  as  Venice  is  a  good  Catholic  city 
and  will  confess  its  sins  in  the  beautiful  Cathedral  which 
they  have  raised  in  my  honor,  I  have  resolved  to  defend 
it  against  this  peril  of  which  they  are  ignorant,  with  the 
aid  of  these  two  brave  companions.  Saint  George  and 
Saint  Theodore,  and  for  this  I  borrowed  your  bark ;  and 
since  every  labor  should  receive  its  just  compensation, 
and  you  have  passed  through  a  rough  night,  here  is  my 
ring  ;  take  it  to  the  Doge  and  relate  to  him  what  thou 
hast  seen.  He  will  give  thee  thy  cap  full  of  golden  se- 
quins." 

Having  spoken  thus,  the  Saint  retook  his  place  upon 
the  top  of  the  portico  of  Saint  Mark's.  Saint  Theodore 
clambered  up  to  the  top  of  his  column,  where  was  grum- 
bling his  ill-natured  crocodile,  and  Saint  George  went  to 
squat  upon  the  bottom  of  his  niche  in  the  great  window 
of  the  Ducal  Palace. 

The  gondolier,  very  much  astonished,  and  with  good 
reason,  would  have  beheved  that  he  had  been  dreaming, 
after  having  drunk  during  the  evening  too  many  cups  of 
the  wine  of  Samos,  if  the  big  and  heavy  ring  of  gold,  set 
with  precious  stones,  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  had  not 
prevented  him  from  doubting  the  reality  of  the  events  of 
the  night. 

He  went,  therefore,  to  find  the  Doge,  who,  with  his 
cocked  hat  on  his  head,  was  presiding  over  the  Senate, 
and,  kneeling  respectfully,  narrated  the  story  of  the 
battle  of  the  devils  with  the  patrons  of  Venice.  This 
story  at  first  seemed  incredible,  but  the  return  of  the 
ring,  which  was  indubitably  that  of  Saint  Mark,  and  the 
absence  of  which  from  the  treasury  of  the  Church  was 
established,  proved  the  veracity  of  the  gondolier.  This 
ring,  enclosed  in  a  treasm-e-chest  with  triple  locks,  care- 
fully guarded,  and  the  fastenings  of  which  showed  no 

[     219     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN      ITALY 

trace  of  having  been  broken  open,  could  not  have  been 
taken  from  it  save  by  supernatural  power.  The  gondo- 
lier's cap  was  filled  with  gold  pieces,  and  a  mass  of 
thanksgiving  for  the  peril  escaped  was  celebrated.  This 
did  not  hinder  the  Venetians  from  continuing  their  disso- 
lute manner  of  life,  from  passing  their  nights  in  gambling, 
drinking,  and  love-making,  of  masking  themselves  for  the 
sake  of  intrigues  or  of  prolonging  for  six  months  in  the 
year  the  long  orgy  of  their  carnival.  The  Venetians 
reckon  on  the  protection  of  Saint  Mark  to  get  them  into 
Paradise,  and  are  not  otherwise  concerned  as  to  their 
salvation.  The  affair  is  the  business  of  Saint  Mark; 
they  have  raised  a  sufficiently  beautiful  church  to  him 
and  he  is  still  under  obligations  to  them. 

The  moment  chosen  by  Paris  Bordone  is  that  in  which 
the  gondolier  kneels  before  the  Doge.  The  composition 
of  the  scene  is  very  picturesque:  in  the  perspective  is 
seen  a  long  line  of  brown  or  hoary  heads  of  senators  of 
the  most  magisterial  character  ;  onlookers  are  ranged 
upon  the  steps,  and  form  groups  sldlfully  contrasted; 
the  beautiful  Venetian  costume  is  displayed  in  all  its 
splendor.  As  in  almost  all  the  canvases  of  this  school, 
architecture  holds  a  high  place.  Beautiful  porticos  in 
the  style  of  Palladio,  enlivened  by  personages  coming 
and  going,  fill  the  background. 

This  picture  has  the  merit,  quite  rare  in  the  Italian 
school,  almost  exclusively  occupied  with  the  reproduc- 
tion of  religious  or  mythological  subjects,  of  representing 
a  popular  legend,  a  scene  of  manners  and  customs,  a 
romantic  subject,  moreover,  such  as  Delacroix,  or  Louis 
Boulanger  might  have  chosen,  and  this  gives  it  a  charac- 
ter of  its  own  and  a  peculiar  attraction. 

It  seems  to  us  that  a  Museum  composed  of  well-exe- 
cuted copies  of  the  masterpieces  of  all  schools  would  be 
a  very  interesting  thing  and  very  profitable  for  art. 
Many  elements  of  such  a  gallery  ought  already  to  be  in 

[     220     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

existence.  One  hall  might  be  consecrated  to  each  great 
master  whose  entire  work  scattered  throughout  the 
museums  and  churches  of  Europe,  might  be  copied.  A 
choice  might  be  made  among  the  artists  of  secondary- 
rank,  so  original,  so  spiritual,  and,  if  wanting  in  genius, 
still  so  full  of  talent. 

And  there  might  be  reunited  in  this  single  Palace 
that  which  is  scattered  over  the  entire  earth  and  which 
needs,  in  order  that  it  may  be  seen,  long  and  costly  jour- 
neys, often  impossible.  The  Palace  of  the  Fine  Arts  or 
the  galleries  of  the  Louvre  might  furnish  an  asylum  for 
such  a  collection,  which,  besides  the  information  it  would 
afford  to  artists,  would  have  the  advantage  of  prolonging 
for  some  centuries  the  life,  or  at  all  events,  the  memory 
of  masterpieces  about  to  disappear. 


[      221      ] 


CHAPTER    XVIII 
THE    FINE     ARTS— Contuiued 


THE  pearl  of  the  Museum  of  Madrid  is  a  Raphael ; 
that  of  Venice  is  a  Titian,  a  marvelous  canvas 
long  neglected,  then  brought  to  light  again,  which 
also  has  its  legend.  For  many  a  long  year  Venice 
possessed  this  masterpiece  without  being  aware  of  it. 
Relegated  to  an  old,  little-frequented  church,  it  had  dis- 
appeared under  gradually  increasing  layers  of  dust  and 
behind  a  network  of  cobwebs.  With  difificulty  its  subject 
could  be  vaguely  discerned.  One  day  the  Count  Cicog- 
nora,  a  fine  connoisseur,  discovered  a  certain  air  about 
those  features  all  smeared  with  dirt,  and  scenting  the 
master  under  that  livery  of  abandonment  and  "svi'etched- 
ness,  moistened  with  saliva  a  bit  of  the  canvas  and  rubbed 
it  with  his  finger,  an  action  which  was  not  one  of  ex- 
quisite propriety,  but  one  which  a  lover  of  pictures  can- 
not refrain  from  resorting  to  when  he  is  face  to  face  with 
a  smoky  crust,  were  he  twenty  times  a  count  and  a  thou- 
sand times  a  dandy.  The  noble  canvas  preserved  intact 
under  all  this  layer  of  powder,  like  Pompeii  under  its 
mantle  of  ashes,  appeared  so  young  and  so  fresh,  that  the 
Count  had  no  doubt  he  had  recovered  a  canvas  of  a 
great  master  —  an  unlcnown  chef  d'ceuvre. 

He  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  control  his  emotions 
and  proposed  to  the  custodian  to  exchange  that  great 
dilapidated  painting  for  a  fine,  wholly  new,  very  fresh, 
very  glossy,  finely-framed  picture,  which  would  confer 
honor  upon  the  church  and  give  pleasure  to  the  faithful. 
The  custodian  joyfully  accepted,  smiling  to  himself  at 
the  whimsicality  of  the  Count,  who  gave  new  things  for 
old  ones,  and  asked  nothing  to  boot.  Its  surface,  washed 
[     222     ] 


VENICE 

The  Piazzetta  of  St.  Mark,  ivith  a  view  of  the  Idand  of  St.  George 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

of  the  dirt  which  soiled  it,  the  Assitnta  of  Titian  ap- 
peared, radiant  as  the  sun  bursting  through  the  clouds. 
Parisian  readers  can  gain  an  idea  of  the  importance  of 
this  discovery  by  going  to  the  Beaux  Arts  to  see  the 
beautiful  copy  by  Sernu*,  recently  executed  and  put  in 
place. 

The  Assunta  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  Titian's  works 
of  art,  and  the  one  by  means  of  which  he  attained  his 
highest  fame.  The  composition  is  balanced  and  ar- 
ranged with  an  infinite  skill.  The  upper  portion, 
which  is  arched,  represents  Paradise,  —  Glory,  as  the 
Spaniards  call  it  m  their  ascetic  tongue ;  hosts  of 
angels,  drowned  and  lost  in  a  flood  of  incalculable 
depth,  stars  scintillating  upon  the  flames,  the  most  vivid 
sj)arklings  of  eternal  day,  form  the  aureole  of  the  Father, 
who  arrives  from  the  bottom  of  the  Infinite  with  the 
movement  of  a  hovering  eagle,  accompanied  by  an  arch- 
angel and  a  seraph,  whose  hands  sustain  the  crown  and 
the  nimbus. 

This  Jehovah,  like  a  divine  bird,  exhibiting  a  head 
and  body  tapering  in  horizontal  foreshortening  under  a 
cloud  of  flowing  draperies  spread  out  like  wings,  aston- 
ishes the  beholder  by  its  sublime  audacity.  If  it  is  pos- 
sible for  a  himian  pencil  to  give  features  to  divinity, 
certainly  Titian  has  accomplished  the  feat. 

A  power  without  limits,  an  imperishable  youthful- 
ness  radiate  from  this  face  with  a  white  beard  ;  since  the 
Olympian  Jupiter  of  Phidias,  never  has  the  Lord  of 
Heaven  and  Earth  been  more  worthily  depicted. 

The  centre  of  the  tableau  is  occupied  by  the  Virgin 
Mary,  whom  a  garland  of  angels  and  souls  of  the 
blessed  lifts  up,  or  rather  surrounds,  for  she  has  no 
need  of  helpers  in  order  to  mount  to  Heaven ;  she 
raises  herself  by  the  outpouring  of  her  invincible  faith, 
by  the  purity  of  her  soul,  more  aerial  than  the  most  lu- 
minous ether.     There  is,  mdeed,  in  this   face,  an  im- 

[     223     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

speakable  power  of  ascension,  and  to  obtain  this  effect 
Titian  has  not  been  obhged  to  resort  to  slender  forms, 
cUnging  di'aperies,  or  transparent  colors. 

His  Madonna  is  a  woman  very  trvie  to  life,  very  much 
alive,  very  real,  of  a  beauty  as  substantial  as  that  of  the 
Venus  of  Milo,  or  of  la  Fcmme  couchee  of  the  Judg- 
ment Hall  at  Florence.  An  ample  drapery  flutters 
around  her  with  numerous  folds.  Nothing  could  be 
more  celestially  beautiful  than  this  great  and  strong  fig- 
ure in  its  rose-colored  tunic  and  mantle  of  azure ;  in 
spite  of  the  powerful  voluptuousness  of  the  body  an  ex- 
pression of  the  purest  virginity  sparkles  in  it. 

At  the  base  of  the  tableau,  the  Apostles  are  grouped 
in  various  attitudes  of  rapture  and  surprise  skilfully 
contrasted.  Two  or  three  little  angels  who  connect 
them  with  the  intermediate  zone  of  the  composition, 
seem  to  be  explaining  to  them  the  miracle  which  is  tak- 
ing place.  The  heads  of  the  Apostles,  of  varied  ages 
and  characters,  are  painted  with  a  surprising  strength 
and  fidelity  to  life. 

In  contemplating  this  Virgin  and  comparing  the  mas- 
ter's idea  of  her  with  other  Virgins  of  different  masters, 
we  realize  what  a  marvelous  and  ever  new  thing  art  is. 
What  Catholic  painting  has  accomplished  in  the  way  of 
variations  upon  this  theme  of  the  Madonna  without  ex- 
hausting it,  astonishes  and  confounds  the  imagination ; 
but,  upon  reflection,  one  comj^rehends  that,  under  the 
type  he  has  chosen,  each  painter  at  once  introduces 
his  own  dream  of  love,  and  the  personification  of  his 
talent. 

The  Madonna  of  Albert  Diirer,  in  her  dolorous  and 
somewhat  constrained  grace,  with  her  weary  features, 
more  interesting  than  beautiful,  her  air  of  a  matron 
rather  than  of  a  virgin,  her  Teutonic  and  bourgeois 
fi'ankness,  her  tight-fitting  vestments  with  regular  folds, 
almost  always  accompanied  by  a  rabbit,  an  owl  or  a 
[     224     3 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

monkey,  through  a  vague  reminiscence  of  Germanic 
pantheism,  might  she  not  well  be  the  woman  whom  he 
had  loved  and  chosen,  and  does  she  not  very  well  rep- 
resent the  genius  of  the  artist  ?  As  she  is  his  Madonna, 
she  might  also  easily  be  his  Muse. 

The  same  resemblance  is  found  in  Raphael.  The 
type  of  his  Madonna,  in  which,  mingled  wdth  former 
memories,  are  always  to  be  met  with  the  features  of 
the  Fornarina,  so  often  copied,  generally  idealized,  are 
they  not  the  symbolization  of  his  graceful  talent  thor- 
oughly imbued  with  a  chaste  voluptuousness  ?  The 
Christian  nru'tured  by  Plato  and  Greek  art,  the  friend 
of  Leo  X,  the  dilettante  Pope,  the  artist  who  died  of 
love  while  painting  the  "  Transfiguration,"  does  not  his 
whole  being  live  in  those  modest  Venuses  holding  a 
child  on  their  knees  ?  If  one  wished  to  symbolize  the 
genius  of  each  painter,  in  an  allegorical  tableau,  w'ould 
he  portray  it  otherwise  than  that  of  the  angel  of  Urban  ? 

The  Virgin  of  the  Assunta,  great,  strong,  liigh-colored, 
with  her  healthy  and  robust  charm,  her  fine  bearing,  her 
simple  and  natural  beauty,  is  she  not  the  painting  of 
Titian,  which  possesses  all  his  qualities  and  character- 
istics ?  These  investigations  might  be  extended,  but  we 
have  said  enough  to  indicate  our  meaning. 

Thanks  to  the  layers  of  dust  wdiich  covered  it  for  so 
many  years,  the  Assunta  shines  with  the  splendor  of 
youth  ;  the  centuries  have  not  glided  by  as  far  as  it  is 
concerned,  and  we  have  the  supreme  pleasure  of  behold- 
ing a  painting  of  Titian  exactly  as  it  was  when  it  issued 
from  his  palette. 

Opposite  the  Assunta  of  Titian,  as  the  painting  of 
most  strength  and  most  worthy  to  face  so  splendid  a 
masterpiece,  has  been  placed  the  "  Saint  Mark  Rescuing 
a  Slave,"  of  Tintoretto. 

Tintoretto  is  the  king  of  the  strong.     He  possesses  a 
vehemence  of  composition,  a  fury  of  brush,  an  audacity 
[     225     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

for  incredible  foresliortenings  ;  and  his  Saint  Mark  may 
be  considered  one  of  the  most  daring  and  ferocious  of 
his  canvases. 

This  painting  has  for  its  subject  the  patron  saint  of 
Venice  coming  to  the  aid  of  a  poor  slave  whom  a  bar- 
barous master  was  tormenting  and  torturing  on  account 
of  the  obstinate  devotion  which  the  poor  devil  showed 
toward  this  saint.  The  slave  is  stretched  out  on  the 
ground  upon  a  cross  surrounded  by  executioners,  who 
are  making  vain  efforts  to  fasten  him  to  the  infamous 
tree.  The  nails  rebound,  the  hammers  break,  the  axes 
jfly  in  fragments ;  more  merciful  than  men,  the  instru- 
ments of  torture  are  dulled  in  the  hands  of  the  torturers  ; 
the  cm'ious  bystanders  watch  and  whisper  among  them- 
selves, greatly  wondering.  The  judge  leans  from  the 
top  of  his  judgment  seat  in  order  to  see  why  his  orders 
are  not  executed,  while  Saint  Mark,  in  one  of  the  most 
violent  foreshortenings  which  painting  has  ever  risked, 
thrusts  his  head  from  the  skies,  makes  a  dive  to  earth, 
without  clouds,  without  wings,  without  cherubim,  with- 
out any  of  the  aerostatic  means  ordinarily  employed  in 
the  pictures  of  saintship,  and  comes  to  deliver  him  who 
has  had  faith  in  him.  This  vigorous  figure,  with  the 
muscles  of  an  athlete,  of  colossal  proportions,  rushing 
through  the  air  like  a  stone  hurled  from  a  catapult,  pro- 
duces the  most  singular  effect.  The  design  is  so  power- 
ful that  the  massive  Saint  sustains  himself  to  the  eye 
and  does  not  fall ;  it  is  very  skilful.  Add  to  this  that 
the  painting  is  so  brusque  in  its  contrast  of  light  and 
shadow,  so  rugged  and  turbulent  of  touch,  that  the 
fiercest  Caravages  and  EsiDagnolets  placed  alongside  it 
would  seem  to  be  rose-water,  and  you  will  have  an  idea 
of  this  picture  which,  in  spite  of  its  barbarities,  preserves 
always,  by  means  of  its  accessories,  that  abundant  and 
sumptuous  architectural  aspect  which  is  peculiar  to  the 
Venetian  school. 

[      220     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

There  are  also  in  this  same  room  an  "  Adam  and 
Eve,"  and  an  "Abel  and  Cain,"  by  the  same  painter,  two 
magnificent  canvases  treated  as  studies,  and  possibly  the 
finest  which  this  painter  has  accomplished  from  the  point 
of  view  of  execution.  Upon  a  ground  of  green,  suppressed 
and  mysterious,  the  distant  foliage  of  Eden,  or  rather 
the  wall  of  the  studio,  two  superb  bodies  stand  forth,  of  a 
white,  warm  lustre,  of  a  vivid  flesh-color  and  a  powerful 
reality;  it  is  probable  that  Eve  is  offering  to  Adam  that 
fatal  apple  which  stuck  in  his  throat,  which  is  sufficient 
warrant  for  two  naked  personages  in  the  open  air;  but 
that  makes  no  difference.  Tintoretto,  who  had  written 
on  this  wall,  "The  outline  of  Michael  Angelo  and  color 
of  Titian,"  has  in  this  figure  accomplished  part,  at  least, 
of  his  program. 

The  painting  of  "Abel  and  Cain,"  which  forms  a  pen- 
dant, breathes  all  the  savage  fury  which  could  be  ex- 
pected of  such  a  subject  and  such  a  painter.  Death,  the 
consequences  of  the  sin  of  our  first  parents,  makes  its 
entry  into  the  young  world,  by  a  formidable  shadow,  in 
which  the  assassin  and  his  victim  are  rolling.  In  the 
corner  of  the  canvas,  a  horrible  detail,  the  head  of  a 
killed  sheep  is  bleeding.  Is  this  the  sacrifice  offered  by 
Abel,  or  a  symbol  signifying  that  innocent  animals  should 
also  suffer  punishment  for  the  curiosity  of  Eve?  We 
hesitate  to  say.  Tintoretto  probably  did  not  think  of  it. 
He  had  other  matters  to  think  of  than  dreaming  about 
subtleties ;  he,  the  most  courageous  wielder  of  the  brush 
who  ever  lived. 

Bonifazio,  of  whose  work  our  Museum  possesses  only 
one  insufficient  example,  is  an  admirable  artist.  His 
Mauvais  Biche,  of  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  very  in- 
telligently cojDied  by  M.  Serrur,  to  whom  also  is  due  the 
fine  fac-simile  of  the  Assunta,  is  a  picture  that  is  pro- 
foundly Venetian.  There  is  wanting  in  it  neither  beau- 
tiful women  with  plaited  tresses,  strings  of  pearls,  robes 

[     227     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

of  velvet  and  brocade,  nor  grand  seigneurs  of  gallant  and 
courtly  bearing,  nor  musicians,  nor  pages,  nor  negroes, 
nor  clotli  of  damask  richly  covered  with  gold  and  silver 
plate,  nor  of  dogs  frisking  on  the  mosaic  pavements,  and 
on  this  occasion  sniffing  at  the  rags  of  Lazarus  with  the 
disgust  of  well-bred  dogs,  nor  terraces  with  railings  on 
which  wine  in  antique  cups  is  served,  nor  white  colon- 
nades between  which  can  be  seen  the  blue  sky.  Only 
the  silver-gray  of  Paul  Veronese  here  assumes  an  amber 
tint,  the  silver  gilds  itself  and  becomes  vermilion.  Boni- 
fazio,  who  painted  portraits,  has  given  to  his  heads  a 
something  more  intimate  than  did  the  author  of  the  four 
great  banquets  and  the  ceiling  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  ac- 
customed as  he  was,  to  regarding  objects  from  the  point 
of  view  of  decoration.  The  physiognomies  of  Bonifazio, 
studied  and  individually  characteristic,  faithfully  recall 
to  mind  the  patrician  types  of  Venice,  who  so  often  posed 
before  the  artist.  The  anachronism  of  the  costume  shows 
that  Lazarus  is  only  a  pretext,  and  that  the  real  subject 
of  the  painting  is  a  banquet  of  noblemen  with  courtesans, 
their  mistresses,  at  the  base  of  one  of  those  beautiful  pal- 
aces which  bathe  their  feet  of  marble  in  the  green  water 
of  the  Grand  Canal.  » 

Do  not  pass  too  quickly  before  these  Apostles,  of  so 
fine  a  tournure,  so  rich  a  color,  and  of  a  religious  solem- 
nity which  the  Venetian  school  does  not  always  possess, 
especially  after  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
when  the  pagan  ideas  of  the  Renaissance  were  intro- 
duced into  art.  The  Academy  of  Fine  Arts  possesses  a 
large  number  of  the  works  of  Bonifazio. 

This  single  room,  besides  the  Mauvais  Eiche  and  the 
Apostles,  of  which  we  have  just  spoken,  contains  an 
"Adoration  of  the  Magi,"  a  "Christ,  and  the  Woman 
taken  in  Adultery,"  a  "  Saint  Jerome  "  and  "  Saint 
Catherine,"  "  Saint  Mark,"  Jesus  on  His  throne  sur- 
rounded by  holy  personages,  canvases  of  the  greatest 
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JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

worth  and  which  valiantly  hold  their  own  in  the  vicinity 
of  Titian,  of  Tintoretto,  and  Paul  Veronese. 

A  great  painter,  little  known  in  France,  is  Rocco  Mar- 
cone,  an  artist  of  a  pure  style  and  of  profound  feeling,  a 
species  of  Italian  Albert  Diirer,  less  fantastic  and  less 
chimerical  than  the  German,  but  having  a  species  of 
Archaic  tranquillity  in  his  manner  which  makes  him 
seem  more  ancient  than  his  contemporaries,  Uke  an  In- 
gres among  a  group  composed  of  Delacroix,  Descamps, 
Couture,  Muller  and  Diaz.  His  "  Christ  Between  Saint 
John  and  Saint  Paul"  recalls  an  analogous  subject  by  the 
painter  of  the  ceiling  of  Homer,  which  in  former  times 
was  in  the  Church  de  la  Trinite-du-Mont  at  Rome,  and 
which  may  now  be  seen  in  the  gallery  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg. The  heads  have  much  character  and  nobility, 
and  the  group,  vigorously  colored,  stands  out  upon  a 
httle  sky  flecked  with  sheep-hke  clouds. 

We  spoke  a  moment  ago,  in  connection  with  Rocco 
Marcone,  of  Albert  Diirer,  and  Ingres ;  a  third  point  of 
resemblance,  still  more  exact,  comes  into  our  memory, — 
that  of  the  Spanish  painter  Juan  de  Juanes,  in  his  ad- 
mirable Vie  de  Samt  Etienne;  there  is  the  same  purity, 
the  same  tranquil  and  sober  coloring. 

Here,  on  one  side  of  a  wall,  are  a  whole  band  of  those 
Gothic  Venetians,  whom  we  mentioned  upon  entering 
the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  so  suave,  so  pure,  so  ingen- 
uous, so  mild,  and  so  charming. 

Jean  Bellin,  Cima  da  Conegliano,  and  Vittore  Car- 
paccio,  all  three  present  themselves  to  us  with  the  same 
subject,  a  subject  which  sufficed  for  the  whole  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  caused  the  production  of  thousands  of 
masterpieces;  the  Madonna  and  Child  on  a  throne  sur- 
rounded by  Saints,  ordinarily  the  patrons  of  the  person 
for  whom  the  picture  was  painted,  a  custom  against  the 
anachronism  of  which  the  pedants  cried  out,  asserting 
that  it  was  not  natural  that   Saint   Francis   of  Assisi, 

[     229     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

Saint  Sebastian  and  Saint  Catherine  or  other  saints 
should  be  found  in  the  same  frame  with  the  Holy  Vir- 
gin, mingling  the  costumes  of  the  Middle  Ages  with  an- 
tique draperies. 

These  critics  did  not  understand  that,  for  a  lively 
faith,  neither  time  nor  place  exists  and  that  there  is 
nothing  more  touching  than  this  reconciliation  of  the 
idolatrous  with  the  devout,  —  a  real  reconciliation,  for 
the  Madonna  was  then  a  living  being,  contemporaneous, 
actual ;  she  took  part  in  the  existence  of  every  one ;  she 
served  as  an  ideal  for  all  timid  lovers  and  as  a  mother  for 
all  the  afflicted.  She  was  not  relegated  to  the  further- 
most background  of  the  skies,  as  is  done  in  the  ages  of 
incredulity,  under  the  pretext  of  respect ;  one  lived  fa- 
miliarly with  her,  one  confided  to  her  one's  troubles, 
one's  hopes,  and  no  one  would  have  been  surprised  to 
see  her  appear  in  the  street  in  the  company  of  a  monk, 
of  a  cardinal,  of  a  religious  devotee,  or  any  other  holy 
personage.  With  the  very  strongest  reason  there  was 
admitted  without  difficulty  into  a  picture,  that  mixture 
which  shocks  the  purist,  but  which  is  profoundly  Catholic. 

For  our  part,  we  dearly  love  these  thrones  and  these 
baldaquins  of  a  precious  and  delicate  ornamentation, 
these  Madonnas  holding  their  Son  on  their  knees  and 
naively  adorned  with  a  nimbus  of  gold,  as  if  color  was 
not  sufficiently  brilliant  for  them,  with  these  little  angels 
playing  on  viols  of  love,  rebecks,  and  angelicas. 

Yes,  in  spite  of  our  liking  for  pagan  art,  we  love  these 
innocent  Gothic  pictures,  these  Fathers  of  the  Church 
carrying  great  missals  under  their  arms,  the  cardinals, 
with  biretta  on  their  heads,  these  Saint  Georges  in  the 
armor  of  knights,  these  chastely  nude  Saint  Sebastians, 
a  species  of  Christian  Apollo,  who,  instead  of  luirling 
arrows,  receive  them;  these  priests,  these  saints,  and 
these  monks  in  their  beautiful  flowered  dalmatics,  their 
frocks  of  white  and  black;  these  young  women  saints 

[     230     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

fastened  upon  a  wheel  and  holding  a  palm  branch  in 
their  hands,  ladies  of  honor  to  the  Queen  of  Heaven ;  all 
that  loving  and  devoted  company  who  group  themselves 
humbly  at  the  base  of  the  Apotheosis  of  the  Virgin 
Mother.  We  find  that  this  arrangement,  which  is,  in  a 
way,  hierarchical,  better  satisfies  the  exigencies  of  the 
Church  picture,  as  it  should  be  conceived,  than  the  learned 
and  conceited  compositions  arranged  from  the  point  of 
view  of  reality.  There  is  in  this  composition  a  sacred 
rhythm  which  ought  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  faithful. 

The  appearance  of  an  image,  so  necessary  to  our  sense 
in  devotional  subjects,  is  preserved,  and  at  the  same  time 
art  loses  nothing  by  it ;  while,  limited  on  one  side,  indi- 
viduahty  regains  its  rights  on  the  other.  Each  artist 
stamps  his  originality  upon  the  execution,  and  these 
paintings,  made  of  the  same  elements,  are  perhaps  the 
more  personal. 

The  feathered  musicians  of  Carpaccio  do  not  resemble 
those  of  Jean  Bellin,  although  they  tune  their  guitars  at 
the  feet  of  the  Virgin  upon  the  steps  of  a  baldacchino 
almost  like  his. 

The  Avinged  virtuosos  of  Carpaccio  are  more  elegant, 
of  a  more  youthful  charm,  they  have  the  appearance  of 
pages  of  good  family;  those  of  Jean  Bellin  are  more 
innocent,  more  infantile,  more  puppet-hke;  they  play 
their  music  like  country  choir-boys  under  the  eye  of 
their  vicar.  They  are  all  charming,  but  of  a  varied 
grace,  the  imprint  of  the  character  of  the  painting. 


[     231     ] 


CHAPTER    XIX 
THE    FINE    ARTS  — Concluded. 


"r  ■  iHE  Holy  Family,"  of  Paul  Veronese,  is  composed 
I     in  the  gorgeous  and  luxurious  style  familiar  to 

JL  that  painter.  It  is  certain  that  lovers  of  the  ex- 
act truth  will  not  there  find  the  humble  interior  of  the 
poor  carpenter.  This  column  in  rose-colored  brocatelle 
of  Verona,  that  gorgeously  flowered  curtain,  the  rich  folds 
of  which  form  the  background  of  the  picture,  announce  a 
princely  habitation  ;  but  the  Holy  Family  is  much  rather 
an  apotheosis  than  the  exact  representation  of  the  poor 
home  of  Joseph.  The  presence  of  a  French  saint  bear- 
ing a  palm,  of  a  priest  in  cardinal's  robes,  of  a  holy 
woman  on  whose  neck  is  rolled,  like  a  horn  of  Ammon, 
a  shining  plait  of  golden  hair  in  the  Venetian  fashion, 
the  quasi-royal  stage  upon  which  the  Divine  Mother  is 
enthroned,  presenting  her  Bambino  for  adoration,  super- 
abundantly prove  it. 

In  the  second  room  is  displayed,  upon  an  immense 
canvas,  the  Bepas  chez  Levi,  one  of  the  four  great  feasts 
of  Paul  Veronese.  Our  Museum  possesses  two  of  them  : 
the  "  Marriage  of  Cana,"  and  the  "  Supper  with  the 
Magdalen,"  of  the  same  dimensions  as  the  "  Repast,"  of 
Venice.  There  is  the  same  co-ordination,  ample,  rich, 
and  facile  ;  the  same  silvery  lustre,  the  same  air  of 
feasting  and  of  joy.  There  are  always  swarthy  men 
in  their  rich  dalmatics  of  damask  or  brocade,  blonde 
women  glittering  with  pearls,  negro  slaves  carrying 
plates  and  ewers,  children  playing  on  the  steps  of  the 
railed  stairways,  with  great  white  hounds,  marble  col- 
umns and  statues,  soft,  beautiful  sky  of  a  turquoise  blue, 
which,  when  stepping  back,  is  seen  framed  in  the  door- 

[     232     ] 


VENICE 

View  from  the  Island  of  St.  George 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

way  of  the  neighboring  room,  causing  an  illusion  like 
a  view  in  a  diorama.  Paul  Veronese,  without  even 
excepting  Titian,  Rubens,  and  Rembrandt,  is  probably 
the  greatest  colorist  who  ever  lived.  He  is  neither 
yellow  like  Titian,  nor  red  like  Rubens,  nor  bituminous 
like  Rembrandt.  He  paints  in  the  clear,  with  an  aston- 
ishing precision  of  locality.  No  one  knows  better  than 
he  the  harmony  of  tones  and  their  relative  value  ;  he 
knows  it  better  than  M.  Chevreul,  and  obtains,  by  jux- 
taposition, shades  of  an  exquisite  freshness,  which,  sep- 
arate, would  seem  gray  and  earthy. 

The  composition  of  the  "  Annunciation,"  by  the  same 
painter,  is  a  singular  one.  The  Virgin  Mary  kneeling 
in  the  corner  of  a  long  transverse  canvas  whose  central 
space  is  occupied  by  an  elegant  piece  of  architecture, 
awaits  with  a  modest  air  the  arrival  of  the  angel  rele- 
gated to  the  other  end  of  the  picture,  and  who  vrith 
spread  wings  seems  to  glide  toward  her  to  give  her  the 
angelic  salutation.  This  arrangement,  contrary  to  the 
law  which  places  at  the  centre  of  the  canvas  the  group 
upon  which  it  is  desired  to  fasten  the  eyes,  is  a  brilliant 
caprice,  which  woidd  not  have  been  so  successful,  exe- 
cuted b}'-  any  other  than  Paul  Veronese. 

The  Venetians  gaining  a  victory  over  the  Turks, 
thanks  to  the  intervention  of  Saint  Justine,  is  one  of 
those  subjects  which  are  pleasing  to  the  national  amour- 
'pro'pre^  and  which  are  repeatedly  met  with.  We  have 
already  described  a  similar  composition  in  the  Ducal 
Palace  ;  this  mixture  of  armor  and  of  costumes,  of  caps 
and  turbans,  of  Christians  and  infidels,  was  a  happy 
theme  for  the  artist,  and  he  has  made  skilful  use  of  it. 
We  cannot  describe  in  detail  all  the  paintings  of  Paul 
Veronese  contained  in  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts.  A 
separate  volume  would  be  necessary  ;  for  all  these  great 
geniuses  were  of  a  prodigious  fecundity. 

The  Fine  Arts  contains  the  last  picture  of  Titian, 
[     233     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

a  priceless  treasure  !  The  years,  so  heavy  upon  us, 
glided  by  without  oppressing  this  patriarch  of  paint- 
ing, who  traversed  a  whole  century  and  whom  the 
plague  surprised  at  his  work  at  the  age  of  ninety-nine 
years. 

This  painting,  solemn  and  melancholy  of  aspect,  the 
funereal  subject  of  which  seems  as  though  it  were  a  pre- 
sentiment, represents  a  Christ  taken  down  from  the 
cross  ;  the  sky  is  sombre,  a  wan  day  lights  the  cadaver 
piously  held  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea  and  Saint  Mary 
Magdalena.  Both  are  sad,  sombre,  and  seem,  by  their 
dejected  attitude,  to  despair  of  the  resurrection  of  their 
Master.  It  is  evident  that  they  are  asking  themselves, 
with  a  secret  anxiety,  whether  this  body  anointed  with 
balms,  which  they  are  about  to  lay  in  the  sepulchre,  will 
ever  come  forth  from  it ;  in  fact,  Titian  never  painted 
a  corpse  so  death-like. 

Under  this  green  skin  and  in  those  bluish  veins, 
there  is  not  one  drop  of  blood,  the  purple  of  life  has 
been  drawn  off  from  it  forever.  The  Christ  on  the 
Mount  of  Olives,  of  Saint  Paul ;  the  Field,  of  Saint- 
Denis —  of  the  Holy  Sacrament,  by  Eugene  Delacroix, 
alone  can  give  an  idea  of  this  sinister  and  dolorous 
painting,  in  which,  for  the  first  time,  the  great  Vene- 
tian has  been  abandoned  by  his  old  and  unalterable 
serenity.  The  shadow  of  approaching  death  seems  to 
struggle  with  the  light  of  the  painter  who  always  had 
the  sun  on  his  palette,  and  envelops  the  picture  with  a 
cold  twilight.  The  hand  of  the  artist  was  stiff  before 
liis  task  was  accomplished,  as  is  testified  by  the  inscrip- 
tion in  black  letters  traced  in  the  corner  of  the  canvas  : 
"  Quod  Tizianus  inclwatum  reliquit  Pahna  reverenter 
ahsolvit  Dioque  dicavit  opus.''''  — "  The  work  which 
Titian  left  uncompleted,  Palma  respectfully  completes 
and  offers  to  God."  This  noble,  touching,  and 
pious  inscription  made  of  this  picture  a  monument. 
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JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

Certainly,  Palma,  a  great  painter  himself,  could  not 
have  approached  the  work  of  the  master  without 
trembling,  and  his  brush,  skilful  though  it  was,  doubt- 
less hesitated  and  shook  more  than  once  in  placing 
itself  upon  the  strokes  made  by  Titian. 

If  in  the  Fine  Arts  is  to  be  found  the  omega  of  the 
picturesque  life  of  Titian,  the  alpha  may  be  found  there 
also  under  the  form  of  a  great  pictiu'e,  the  subject  of 
which  is  the  "  Presentation  of  Mary  in  the  Temple." 
This  canvas  was  painted  by  Titian  when  he  was  still 
almost  a  child ;  tradition  says  at  fourteen  years  of 
age,  which  seems  to  us  to  evince  too  great  precocity  in 
view  of  the  beauty  of  the  work.  But  coming  down  to 
actual  facts,  the  "  Presentation  of  Mary  "  really  does  date 
back  to  the  extreme  youth  of  the  painter.  The  tre- 
mendous interval  of  time  covered  by  his  work  can 
therefore  be  estimated.  All  the  qualities  of  an  artist 
are  found  in  the  germ  in  this  juvenile  work.  They 
develop  themselves  more  abundantly  later  on,  but  still 
they  exist  in  it  already  in  a  visible  fashion. 

The  pomp  of  the  architecture,  the  magnificent 
figures  of  the  old  men,  the  spirited  folding  of  the 
draperies,  the  virile  simplicity  of  the  style,  all  reveal 
the  master  in  the  child.  The  clear  and  luminous  color- 
ing, which  the  high-ascended  sun  of  vigorous  age  will  gild 
with  a  warmer  reflection,  has  already  that  musculine 
sohdity,  that  robust  consistency,  which  are  distinguish- 
ing characteristics  of  the  author  of  "  Sacred  Love  and 
Profane  Love  "  of  the  Borghese  Palace  ;  of  the  Femme 
Couchee  of  the  Tribune  of  Florence,  and  of  the  "  Mistress 
of  Alphonso  d'Avalon,  Marquis  of  Guest,"  of  the 
Museum  of  the  Louvre. 

Titian  is,  in  our  opinion,  the  only  altogether  robvist 
artist  who  has  made  his  appearance  since  the  days  of 
antiquity.  He  has  the  strong  and  powerful  serenity  of 
Phidias.     With  him  there  is  nothing  feverish,  nothing 

[      235     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

troubled,  nothing  of  unrest.  The  modern  malady  has  not 
touched  him.  He  is  fine,  vigorous,  and  tranquil  as  a 
pagan  artist  of  the  best  days.  His  lofty  nature  expands 
at  ease  in  a  warm  azure,  under  a  hot  sun,  and  his  coloring 
makes  one  think  of  those  beautiful  old  marbles  gilded  by 
the  fair  light  of  Greece.  There  is  no  groping,  no  effort, 
no  violence.  He  attains  the  ideal  at  the  first  stroke  with- 
out di-eaming  over  it.  A  calm  and  vivacious  joy  lights  up 
his  immense  work.  He  alone  seems  to  have  no  suspicion 
of  death,  except  in  his  last  picture.  Without  sensual 
ardor,  without  voluptuous  intoxication,  he  displays  before 
the  gaze,  in  purple  and  in  gold,  the  beauty,  the  youth,  all 
the  amorous  poesy  of  the  feminine  body,  with  the  im- 
passiveness  of  God  showing  Adam  the  entirely  naked  Eve. 
He  sanctifies  nudity  by  that  expression  of  supreme  repose, 
of  beauty  forever  fixed,  of  the  realized  Absolute,  which 
makes  chaste  the  freest  of  the  antique  Avorks. 

In  speaking  of  the  fisherman  taking  the  ring  of  Saint 
Mark  to  the  Doge,  we  narrated  the  story  which  is  at- 
tached to  it.  Giorgione  has  dealt  with  another  episode 
of  that  wonderful  tale :  it  is  the  combat  of  Saint  George 
and  Saint  Theodore  with  the  demons.  Although  we 
have  some  admiration  for  the  Avarm,  vivacious  and 
highly-colored  concert  cliampetre  of  Giorgione,  Ave  admit 
that  we  do  not  much  like  this  picture  in  the  Fine  Arts 
of  Venice.  Those  athletic,  reddish  demons,  gamboling 
in  the  midst  of  the  green  water,  that  minghng  of  the  forms 
of  men  and  fish  Avelded  together  without  any  mystery, 
do  not  answer  in  any  way  to  the  chimerical  idea  one 
forms  for  himself  of  a  similar  combat.  The  clear  sky  of 
Venetian  art  has  not  enough  mist  about  it  for  the  mon- 
strous imaginations  of  legendary  dreams  to  swarm  in  it 
with  ease.  Daylight  makes  uncomfortable  these  out- 
landish creatures,  and  these  formless  larvte  who  need,  in 
order  to  hide  themseh^es,  the  shade  of  Faust's  cauldron, 
the  spiral  staircase  of  Rembrandt,  or  the  cavern  of  the 

[     236     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Temptations  of  Teniers.  A  Venetian  painter  of  the  six- 
teenth century  is  fantastic,  but  not  fanciful. 

The  "  Descent  from  the  Cross,"  of  Rocco  Marcone,  has 
all  the  serious  qualities,  all  the  unction  of  the  Gothic 
paintings  and  their  tranquil  symmetry,  with  a  richness 
of  tone  and  a  flower  of  coloring  which  are  not  diminished 
by  dangerous  neighbors.  The  dead  Christ,  recalling  by 
His  bloodless  flesh  the  dull  pallor  of  the  sacrificial  Host, 
slips  down  softly  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Virgin,  upheld 
by  a  Magdalene  of  a  tender  and  delicate  beauty,  whose 
great  masses  of  long  hair  fall  hke  cascades  of  gold  upon 
magnificent  robes  of  flowered  damask  of  a  rich  purple 
and  sombre  as  rubies.  Was  this  robe  steeped  in  the 
blood  of  the  Saviour,  O  Magdalene!  or  in  the  drops 
falling  from  thy  heart? 

The  Paduan  has  a  "  Virgin  in  Glory  "  in  the  Spanish 
style.  The  Holy  Spirit  descends  in  a  flood  of  light.  A 
warm  gilded  mist  fills  this  canvas,  which  calls  to  mind 
the  apotheoses  or  rather  the  ascensions  of  Murillo. 

We  did  not  marvel  greatly,  in  spite  of  the  great  talent 
displayed  in  it,  at  the  vast  apocalyptic  canvas  of  Palma 
the  younger,  the  "  Triumph  of  Death."  Saint  John,  seat- 
ed on  a  rock  on  Patmos,  gazes,  with  quill  raised  and  ready 
to  write,  upon  the  formidable  vision  which  defiles  before 
him :  Justice  and  War  riding  upon  sombre  coursers,  and 
Death,  mounted  upon  his  great  pale  horse,  reaping  in  the 
human  harvest,  ears  which  fall  down  in  sheaves  of  corpses 
on  either  side  of  the  road. 

With  the  exception  of  Tintoretto,  who  by  means  of 
his  swarthy  coloring  and  strength  of  brush  can  attain  to 
tragedy  and  terror,  these  lugubrious  subjects  are,  in 
general,  very  poorly  adapted  to  the  Venetian  painters, 
happy  natures  to  whom  come  readily  the  azure  of  the 
sky  and  of  the  sea,  the  whiteness  of  marble  and  flesh, 
the  gold  of  the  hair  and  of  brocades ;  they  cannot  remain 
serious  long,  and,  behind  the  frightful  mask  with  which 
[     237     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

tliey  strive  to  hide  their  vermilion  cheeks,  one  hears  their 
painting  give  a  smothered  laugh. 

A  very  curious  picture  by  Gentil  Bellin  is  the  proces- 
sion on  the  Place  Saint  Mark  of  the  relics  preserved  in 
the  monastery  of  Saint  John  at  the  moment  when  Jacob 
Sahs  made  his  vow  to  the  cross.  A  more  complete  col- 
lection of  the  costumes  of  the  period  could  not  be  im- 
agined; the  j^atient  and  minute  execution  of  the  artist 
does  not  permit  the  loss  of  any  detail.  Nothing  is  sac- 
rificed, all  is  rendered  with  Gothic  conscientiousness. 
Each  head  must  be  a  portrait,  and  a  portrait  as  true  to 
life  as  a  daguerreotype — plus  the  coloring. 

The  appearance  of  the  Place  Saint  Mark  as  it  was 
then  has  the  exactitude  of  an  architectural  plan.  The 
old  Byzantine  mosaics,  repaired  later,  still  adorn  the 
portals  of  the  old  Basilica  and  —  a  remarkable  peculiar- 
ity —  the  bell-turrets  are  entirely  gilded,  which  has  never 
been  done  in  reality. 

But  a  painter  like  Gentil  Bellin  had  not  conceived  this 
fantasy  under  his  cap.  These  bell-turrets  were,  in 
fact,  to  have  been  gilded,  but  the  Doge  Loredano  needed 
for  a  war  the  sequins  intended  for  the  gilding,  and  the 
project  was  not  carried  out;  the  only  trace  of  the  proposed 
plan  which  remains  is  in  the  picture  of  Gentil  BelUn, 
who  had  gilded  his  Saint  Mark  in  anticipation. 

A  certain  miracle  of  a  cross  which  fell  into  the  water 
from  the  top  of  a  bridge  of  Venice,  —  the  bridge  of 
Saint  Leon  or  of  Saint  Laurence,  we  do  not  know 
which,  —  occupied  much  of  the  time  of  the  painters  of 
this  period.  The  Fine  Arts  contain  no  less  than  three  im- 
portant pictures  upon  this  odd  subject:  one  by  Lazzaro 
Sebastiani,  one  by  Gentil  Bellin,  another  by  Giovanni 
Mansueti.  These  canvases  are  of  the  greatest  interest; 
they  deviate  from  the  habitual  type  of  Italian  painting, 
which  revolves  in  a  narrow  circle  of  subjects  of  devotion 
or  mythology,  and  rarely  concerns  itself  with  the  familiar 

[     238     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

details  of  real  life.  The  monks,  in  all  kinds  of  robes, 
the  patricians,  the  people  throwing  themselves  into  the 
water,  swimming  and  plunging,  trying  to  recover  the 
holy  crucifix  fallen  to  the  bottom  of  the  Canal,  present 
the  oddest  physiognomies.  Upon  the  banks  the  crowd 
remains  at  prayer,  awaiting  the  result  of  the  search. 
There  is  especially  a  row  of  kneeling  ladies,  with  joined 
hands,  covered  with  pearls  and  gems,  in  short-waisted 
gowns,  hke  those  worn  under  the  Empire,  who  present 
a  succession  of  profiles  standing  out  one  above  another 
with  a  Gothic  good  humor,  a  shrewdness,  a  beauty,  a 
delicacy,  and  a  variety  that  is  extraordinary ;  it  is 
strange  and  charming. 

One  sees  in  these  canvases  the  ancient  houses  of  Ven- 
ice with  their  red  walls,  their  windows  with  Lombard 
trefoils,  their  terraces  surmounted  by  stakes,  the  old 
bridges  suspended  by  chains,  and  the  gondolas  of  other 
days  which  have  not  their  present  form.  There  was  no 
felce^  but  a  cloth  stretched  upon  hoops,  like  the  galiots 
of  Saint  Cloud;  nor  do  they  carry  that  species  of  violin- 
neck  of  polished  iron  which  serves  as  a  counter-weight 
to  the  rower  located  at  the  poop ;  they  are  also  much 
less  slender. 

Nothing  is  more  elegant,  more  childishly  graceful  than 
the  succession  of  paintings  in  which  Vittore  Carpaccio  has 
represented  the  life  of  Saint  Ursula.  This  Carpaccio  luis 
the  ideal  charm,  the  adolescent  slenderness  of  Raphael 
in  the  "  Marriage  of  the  Virgin,"  one  of  the  first  and 
perhaps  the  most  charming  of  his  pictures ;  heads  more 
innocently  adorable  or  figures  of  more  angelic  coquetry 
could  not  be  imagined.  There  is,  especially,  a  young 
man  with  long  hair,  seen  from  the  back,  letting  fall  upon 
his  shoulders  his  velvet-collared  cape,  who  is  of  a  beauty 
so  spirited,  so  youthful  and  so  seductive,  that  one  might 
believe  he  was  looking  upon  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles 
clothed  in  a  costume  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
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JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

We  are  surprised  that  the  name  of  Carpaccio  is  not 
more  generally  known;  he  has  all  the  adolescent  purity, 
all  the  graceful  seductiveness  of  the  painter  of  Urban  in 
his  early  style,  and  in  addition  that  admirable  Venetian 
coloring  which  no  other  school  has  been  able  to  attain. 

The  Pinacoteca  Contarini,  legacy  of  that  patrician  art 
lover  who  gave  to  the  Museum  his  gallery,  with  armor, 
statuary,  vases,  sculptures,  and  other  precious  objects, 
contains  choice  bits  of  the  Venetian  and  other  schools. 
We  will  mention  the  "  Pilgrims  of  Emmaus,"  by  Marco 
Marziale,  a  canvas  treated  with  a  circumstantial  plain- 
ness, almost  Germanic,  in  which  may  be  remarked  an 
odd-looking  negro  draped  in  a  striped  cloak  of  vivid  col- 
ors; the  "  Madonna,"  the  "Infant  Jesus,"  "  Saint  John," 
"Saint  Catherine,"  by  Andrea  Cord  egliaghi,  whose  blonde 
heads  stand  out  on  a  green  background  of  landscape  visi- 
ble through  a  window;  a  "  Marriage  of  Saint  Catharine," 
in  which  Saint  Peter  and  Saint  John  assist  as  witnesses, 
by  Boccacino  Cremonense;  the  saintly  fiancee,  with  hair 
of  that  reddish  gold  so  dear  to  the  old  masters,  and  her 
beautiful  embroidered  robe  shining  brightly  in  the  midst 
of  a  landscape  of  mountains,  and  sea  of  azure  mildness; 
the  "Madonna  col  Bambino,"  by  Francesco  Bissolo,  very 
soft,  very  pretty,  very  fresh,  of  a  certain  charming  deli- 
cacy of  style,  etc.,  etc. 

The  "Fortime  Triptyque,"  by  Jean  Bellin,  is  distin- 
guished by  singular  allegorical  inventions.  In  the  middle 
panel,  a  nude  woman  stands  upright  upon  an  altar,  ac- 
companied by  angels  or  cupids  playing  upon  tambourines. 
A  young  man,  also  nude,  with  a  crown  upon  his  head,  a 
cloak  upon  his  shoulder,  offers  gifts  to  a  warrior  who  is 
fleeing ;  a  woman  holding  a  ball,  her  hair  knotted  in 
the  form  of  a  cap,  is  wafted  upon  a  ship,  while  httle 
Cupids  play  in  the  waves  like  Tritons. 

The  etchings  of  Callot  please  us  more  than  his  paint- 
ings of  a  more  or  less  doubtful  authenticity.  There  is  at 
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JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

the  Piiiacotlieque  Contarini,  a  "  Champ  de  Foire  "  by  the 
engraver  of  Nancy,  swarming  with  Bohemians,  charla- 
tans, beggars,  lansquenets,  —  flying,  playing  tricks,  beg- 
ging, drinking,  playing  with  cards  or  with  dice. 

Let  us  finish  with  the  gem,  the  pearl,  the  star  of  this 
Musemn:  a  "Madonna  with  the  Infant  Jesus,"  by  Jean 
Bellin.  This  is  a  well-worn,  hackneyed  subject,  treated 
a  thousand  times,  but  which  blooms  forth  anew  with 
eternal  youth  under  the  pencil  of  the  old  master.  What 
is  the  reason  ?  A  woman  holding  a  child  on  her  knees, 
but  what  a  woman !  That  head  pursues  you  like  a  di-eam, 
and  he  who  has  seen  it  once,  sees  it  always ;  it  is  of  an 
impossible  beauty  and  yet  of  a  strange  verisimihtude,  of 
an  immaculate  virginity  and  of  a  penetrating  voluptuous- 
ness; a  supreme  disdain  in  an  infinite  meekness.  We 
seemed,  before  this  canvas,  to  be  contemplating  the  being 
of  our  unreaUzable  dream,  surprised  in  our  soul  by  the 
artist.  Every  day  we  went  to  spend  an  hour  in  mute 
adoration  at  the  feet  of  that  celestial  idol,  and  we  should 
never  have  been  able  to  depart  from  Venice,  if  a  young 
French  painter,  taking  pity  on  us,  had  not  made  for  us 
a  copy  of  that  head  which  had  become  so  dear  to  us. 


[     241     ] 


CHAPTER    XX 

THE    STREETS  — THE    EMPEROR'S 
BIRTHDAY 


THE  streets  of  Venice  are  rarely  mentioned.  They 
exist,  however,  and  there  are  many  of  them,  but 
the  canals  and  gondolas  absorb  the  descriptions 
on  account  of  their  strangeness.  The  absence  of  horses 
and  carriages  gives  to  the  Venetian  streets  a  peculiar 
appearance.  Their  narrowness  makes  them  resemble 
those  of  Oriental  cities.  As  the  ground  of  the  isles  is 
limited,  and  the  houses  in  general  very  high,  the  slen- 
der gashes  which  separate  them  have  the  appearance  of 
cuttings  made  by  saws  in  enormous  blocks  of  stone. 
Certain  callcs  of  Grenada,  certain  allei/s  in  London,  con- 
vey a  sufficiently  correct  idea  of  them. 

The  Frezzaria  is  one  of  the  most  animated  streets  of 
the  city ;  it  is  six  or  eight  feet  wide.  It  represents  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix  in  Paris,  the  width  excepted.  It  is 
chiefly  in  this  street  that  the  goldsmiths  are  to  be  found, 
who  make  those  almost  imperceptible  little  chains  of 
gold,  thin  as  hairs,  which  are  called  jaseron,  and  which 
are  one  of  the  characteristic  curiosities  of  Venice.  With 
the  exception  of  these  chains  and  some  coarse  silver  jew- 
elry for  the  use  of  the  country  folk,  and  which  an  artist 
finds  picturesque,  there  is  nothing  remarkable  to  be 
found  in  these  shops.  Those  of  the  fruiterers  offer  the 
most  attractive  displays  ;  nothing  is  fresher,  better  ar- 
ranged, more  appetizing  than  those  piles  of  vermilion 
peaches  ranged  like  cannon-balls  in  the  artillery  parks, 
than  those  mjisses  of  golden  grapes,  amber,  transparent, 
of  the  richest  colors,  glowing  like  precious  stones,  and 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

whose  seeds,  strung  into  necklaces  and  bracelets,  would 
have  admirably  set  off  the  neck  and  arms  of  some  an- 
tique M^nade. 

The  tomatoes  mingle  their  red  with  lighter  tints,  and 
the  melon,  its  green  exterior  gashed  with  a  knife,  ex- 
hibits its  rosy  wound.  All  these  fine  fruits,  vividly 
illumined  by  the  gas,  are  wonderfully  tempting  upon 
their  beds  of  green  vine-leaves. 

The  eye  could  not  be  more  agreeably  regaled ;  and 
often,  without  feeling  in  the  least  hungry,  we  have 
bought  peaches  and  grapes  for  sheer  love  of  their  color- 
ing. We  remember,  also,  certain  fish-stands  covered 
with  little  fish,  so  white,  so  silvery,  so  pearly,  that  we 
would  have  liked  to  swallow  them  raw,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  icthyophagi  of  the  South  Seas,  for  fear  of 
spoiling  their  delicate  tints ;  and  this  enabled  us  to 
comprehend  that  barbarity  practised  at  ancient  banquets, 
which  consisted  in  watching  the  sea-eels  die  in  crystal 
vases  in  order  to  enjoy  the  opaline  tints  with  which  their 
dying  agonies  variegated  them. 

In  the  evening  the  streets  afford  an  extremely  ani- 
mated and  brilliant  spectacle.  The  shops  are  illumi- 
nated with  gas,  and  the  streets,  being  so  very  narrow, 
the  light  is  not  dissipated.  The  stands  where  pastry 
and  fried  food  are  sold,  the  wine-shops,  the  very  numer- 
ous caf^s,  flare  and  swarm  with  customers.  There  is  a 
perpetual  coming  and  going.  Each  shop,  without  ex- 
ception, has  its  miniature  chapel,  adorned  with  a  Ma- 
donna before  which  lamps  or  candles  are  kept  burning, 
and  pots  of  real  or  artificial  flowers  are  placed.  It  is 
sometimes  a  statuette  of  colored  plaster,  sometimes  a 
smoky  painting ;  sometimes  a  Greek  image  with  a  base 
of  Byzantine  gold,  or  even  a  simple  modern  engraving. 
This  Madonna  replaces  in  devout  Italy  the  ancient  house- 
hold gods. 

This  cult  of  the  Virgin,  a  touching,  a  poetic  cult,  has 
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JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

very  few  opponents  in  Venice,  if  it  has  any,  and  Vol- 
taireans,  in  this  connection,  would  be  little  pleased 
with  the  "  progress  of  light  "  in  the  ancient  City  of  the 
Doges. 

At  almost  every  street  corner,  at  almost  every  descent 
from  a  bridge,  there  is  presented  to  view,  behind  a  grat- 
ing or  glass  case,  a  Madonna  upon  an  altar,  bedecked 
with  crowns  made  of  the  pith  of  reeds,  coUarettes  of 
glass  beads,  paper  flowers,  robes  of  silver  lace,  and  all 
those  pious  tinsel  ornaments  with  which  the  simple  South- 
ern faith  loads  the  object  of  its  adoration  with  childish 
coquetry.  Tapers  and  lamps  keep  perpetually  lighted 
these  altars  loaded  with  such  votive  offerings  as  silver 
hearts,  hmbs  of  wax,  women's  breasts,  pictures  of  ships 
wrecked  by  thunderbolts,  burned  houses  and  other  catas- 
trophes apropos  of  which  the  Virgin  miraculously  inter- 
vened. About  these  chapels  are  always  to  be  found  old 
women  at  prayer,  some  young  girl  on  her  knees,  some 
sailor  who  is  making  a  vow  or  performing  one,  and 
sometimes  also,  persons  whose  appearance  indicates  that 
they  belong  to  a  class  which,  with  us,  has  not  that  sim- 
plicity of  faith,  and  which  leaves  the  religion  of  Christ 
to  the  common  people  and  to  domestics.  We  also  found, 
contrary  to  the  generally  accepted  opinion,  that  Italy  is 
more  devout  than  Spain. 

One  of  these  chapels,  near  the  Bridge  de  la  Paille,  on 
the  Quay  of  the  Slaves,  has  always  numbers  of  the  faith- 
ful within  it,  either  because  it  is  situated  upon  a  much 
frequented  street,  or  because  it  possesses  some  privilege 
or  immunity  of  which  we  are  ignorant.  There  are  also 
scattered  about  in  several  places  money-boxes  for  the 
benefit  of  the  souls  in  Purgatory.  The  few  pieces  of 
gold  or  silver  thrown  into  them  are  used  to  buy  masses 
for  the  poor  forgotten  dead. 

After  the  Frezzaria,  the  street  which  leads  from  the 
Campo  San  Mose  to  the  Place  de  Santa-Maria-Zobenigo, 
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JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

is  one  of  those  which  affords  the  stranger  the  greatest 
number  of  subjects  for  observation ;  many  lanes  empty 
themselves  there  as  into  an  artery,  since  it  puts  the 
banks  of  the  Grand  Canitl  in  communication  with  the 
Place  Saint  Mark ;  the  shops  remain  open  there  longer 
than  elsewhere,  and  as  it  is  a  little  less  narrow,  the 
strangers  pass  through  it  without  fear  of  losing  them- 
selves, which  is  a  very  easy  matter  in  Venice,  where 
the  direction  of  the  streets,  complicated  by  canals  and 
blind  alleys,  is  so  intricate,  that  it  has  been  found  nec- 
essary to  mark  by  a  row  of  stones  accompanied  at  inter- 
vals by  arrows  indicating  the  direction,  the  route  from 
the  Piazza  to  the  railway  station,  located  at  the  other 
end  of  the  city,  near  the  Church  of  the  Scalzi. 

How  many  times  have  we  given  the  night  the  amuse- 
ment of  leading  us  astray  in  this  Dedalus,  inextricable 
for  any  one  but  a  Venetian !  After  having  followed 
twenty  streets,  traversed  thirty  lanes,  passed  by  ten 
canals,  ascended  and  descended  the  same  number  of 
bridges,  it  has  often  happened  that  we  have  found  our- 
selves once  more  at  the  place  from  which  we  set  out. 

These  chases,  for  which  we  chose  moonhght  nights, 
enabled  us  to  surprise  Venice  in  its  secret  attitudes  from 
a  host  of  unexpected  and  picturesque  points  of  view. 

Often  it  was  a  great  palace  half  in  ruins,  outlined  in 
the  shadow  by  a  silvery  ray,  causing  to  shine  suddenly 
like  scales  or  mirrors  the  window  panes  still  remaining 
in  its  broken  windows ;  sometimes  it  was  a  bridge  trac- 
ing its  black  arch  on  a  perspective  of  bluish  water 
slightly  foggy;  further  on  a  trail  of  red  fire  falhng  from 
a  lighted  house  upon  the  sombre  oil  of  a  sleeping  canal ; 
at  other  times  it  was  a  deserted  campo  in  which  a  church 
was  oddly  outlined,  peopled  with  statues,  which  in  the 
obscurity  assumed  the  appearance  of  spectres ;  or  a  tav- 
ern in  which  gondoliers  and  rapscallions,  gesticulating 
like  demons,  were  projected  against  the  window-panes 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

like  Chinese  puppets ;  or,  again,  a  Avater-gate  half  open, 
through  which  mysterious  figures  were  passmg  in  a 
gondola. 

On  one  occasion  we  actually  found  our  way  into  a 
really  sinister  lane,  back  of  the  Grand  Canal.  Origin- 
ally coated  with  that  shade  of  red  which  was  the  usual 
color  of  the  old  Venetian  buildings,  its  lofty  houses  had 
a  ferocious  and  threatening  aspect.  The  rain,  the  fog, 
the  desolation,  and  absence  of  light  at  the  bottom  of 
that  narrow  cut  had  little  by  little  taken  the  color  out  of 
the  fagades;  but  a  faint  reddish  tint  still  dyed  the  walls 
and  looked  like  blood  badly  washed  away  after  a  crime. 
Ennui,  cold,  terror,  oozed  from  those  sanguinary  walls ; 
a  heavy  odor  of  saltpetre  and  stagnant  water,  a  musty 
smell,  reminding  one  of  the  prison,  the  cloister,  and  the 
cavern,  took  you  by  the  nose.  At  the  closed  windows 
was  no  ray  of  light,  no  appearance  of  life.  The  low 
door  studded  with  rusty  nails  and  furnished  with 
knockers  of  iron  corroded  by  the  weather,  seemed  never 
to  open ;  nettles  and  weeds  encroached  upon  the  thresh- 
olds and  did  not  seem  to  have  been  mowed  by  human 
hands  for  ages.  An  emaciated  black  dog,  who  suddenly 
leaped  forth  from  the  shadow  like  a  Jack-in-a-box, 
upon  seeing  us,  began  to  give  utterance  to  furious  and 
plaintive  yelps,  as  though  unaccustomed  to  the  appear- 
ance of  man.  He  followed  us  for  some  time,  jumping 
about  us  in  the  manner  of  the  spaniel  in  the  promenade 
of  Faust  and  Wagner.  But  fixing  our  eyes  upon  him  we 
said  "  Unclean  beast,  thou  yelpest  in  vain ;  thou  shalt 
never  swallow  our  monad.''''  This  speech  seemed  to  as- 
tonish him,  and  seeing  himself  discovered,  he  disappeared, 
uttering  a  mournful  howl.  Was  it  a  dog  or  was  it  an 
evil  spirit  ?  That  is  a  question  which  we  prefer  to  leave 
unanswered. 

We  very  much  regret  our  lack  of  Hoffman's  talent  to 
make  this  sinister  street  the  theatre  of  one  of  those  weird 

[     246     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

and  fearsome  tales,  like  "  The  Man  in  Black,"  "  The  De- 
serted House,"  the  "Night  of  Saint  Sylvester,"  in  which 
some  alchemists  get  into  a  dispute  over  the  body  of  a 
mannikin  and  fight  with  microscopes  in  a  whirlwind  of 
monstrous  visions.  The  bald,  wrinkled,  grimacing  heads, 
decomposed  by  a  perpetual  metamorphosis,  of  Master 
Tabracchio,  of  SiDallanzi,  of  Leuwenhoek,  of  Swammer- 
dam,  of  Counsellor  Tusman,  and  of  Lindhorst  the  archiv- 
ist, might  be  wonderfidly  well  framed  in  these  black 
windows. 

If  Gozzi,  the  author  of  the  Contratempi,  who  believed 
himself  exposed  to  the  rancor  of  enchanters  and  familiar 
spirits  whose  manoeuvres  he  had  discovered  and  w^hose 
secrets  he  had  betrayed  in  his  fairy  plays,  had  ever  tra- 
versed this  solitary  lane  he  would  have  experienced  some 
of  those  inconceivable  mishaps  which  seem  to  have  been 
reserved  for  the  poet  of  Turandot,  of  "  The  Love  of  the 
Three  Orangemen "  and  of  the  "  Blue  Monster."  But 
Gozzi,  who  had  the  sentiment  of  the  invisible  world, 
must  have  always  avoided  the  street  of  the  Avocats  at 
the  twilight  hour. 

In  returning  from  one  of  these  fantastic  tours,  during 
which  the  city  seemed  more  deserted  than  usual,  we  went 
to  bed  in  a  melancholy  frame  of  mind  after  having  waged 
a  terrible  combat  against  a  monstrous  mosquito,  buzzing 
like  a  wasp,  shaking  his  plumes  like  a  drum-major,  un- 
rolling his  proboscis  like  the  god  Ganesa,  grating  his 
saw  with  the  most  ferocious  audacitj^,  in  which  we  were 
worsted,  and  from  which  we  issued  riddled  with  en- 
venomed wounds. 

We  were  beginning  to  plunge  ourselves  into  that  dark 
ocean  of  sleep,  so  like  that  of  death,  of  which  the  ancients 
deemed  it  the  brother,  when  through  the  heaviness  of  our 
torpor,  we  heard  loud  whispering,  rumblings  of  far-off 
thunder,  and  mutterings  of  awe-inspiring  voices.  Was 
it  a  tempest,  a  battle,  a  cataclysm  of  nature,  a  struggle  of 

[     247     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

demons  with  souls?  Sucli  was  the  question  put  to  our 
half-awakened  intelligence. 

Presently  a  deafening  noise  tore  away  the  dark  veil  of 
our  sleep,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  which  cleaves  a  black 
cloud.  Cymbals  clashed  their  brassy  discs  and  resounded 
like  the  clash  of  armor;  tomtoms  and  gongs  vibrated 
under  furious  percussions ;  the  big  drum  roared  like  the 
melee  of  a  hundred  bulls ;  the  ophycleids  and  trombones 
unloosed  metallic  hurricanes  ;  the  cornets  whined  despair- 
ingly; the  little  flute  made  desperate  efforts  to  rise  above 
this  noise  and  dominate  it ;  all  the  instruments  struggled 
in  a  hubbub  and  clatter.  It  might  be  called  a  festival  of 
Hector  Berlioz  floating  adrift  at  night  on  the  water. 

When  this  musical  water-spout  passed  beneath  our 
balcon}^,  at  times  we  imagined  we  heard  the  clarions  of 
Jericho  sounding,  and  the  trumpets  of  the  Last  Judg- 
ment ;  a  tempest  of  bells  formed  the  accompaniment. 

This  tumult  moved  toward  the  Grand  Canal  by  the 
red  light  of  many  torches.  We  thought  the  serenade  a 
trifle  furious,  and  we  pitied  with  all  our  heart  the  belle 
for  whom  this  nocturnal  uproar,  this  colossal  charivari, 
was  intended.  "  The  lover  is  scarcely  prudent,"  thought 
we,  "and  is  not  afraid  of  compromising  her  beauty.  A 
guitar,  a  violin,  or  a  lute  would  have  sufficed,  it  seems  to 
ITS."  Then  the  noise  dying  away  in  the  distance,  we 
began  to  go  to  sleep  again,  when  a  blinding  white  light 
penetrated  our  closed  eyelids,  like  one  of  those  dazzling 
flashes  of  lightning  for  which  the  most  opaque  nights 
have  no  shade,  and  a  deafening  detonation,  which  made 
the  window-panes  dance  and  the  house  shake  from  top  to 
bottom,  burst  forth  from  the  midst  of  the  silence.  We 
jumped  three  feet  from  our  bed ;  had  li'ghtning  struck  m 
the  middle  of  the  room?  Was  the  siege  of  Venice  re- 
commencing without  warning,  and  had  a  bomb  burst  in 
our  room  in  the  midst  of  our  sleep? 

These  deafening  explosions  were  repeated  every  fifteen 

[     248     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

minutes  until  morning,  to  the  great  damage  of  the  glass 
and  our  nerves.  They  seemed  to  originate  at  a  point 
very  near  by,  and  each  time  a  dazzling  flash  announced 
them  to  us ;  between  the  discharges  there  was  profound 
silence,  the  silence  of  death.  In  the  midst  of  this  tumult 
Venice  seemed  to  be  engulfed  and  drowned  in  the  la- 
gunes.  All  the  windows  were  dark ;  not  a  flash  from  a 
gondola  shone  through  the  pale  dimness. 

In  the  morning  the  solution  of  the  enigma  was  re- 
vealed. It  was  the  birthday  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria. 
All  this  bacchanalia  was  taking  place  in  honor  of  the 
German  Csesar.  The  batteries  of  the  Giudecca  and 
Saint  George  boomed  out  their  salutes,  and  many  panes 
of  glass  were  broken  in  the  neighborhood.  With  day- 
light, the  uproar  began  again.  The  frigates  fired  their 
guns,  alternating  with  the  batteries ;  the  bells  pealed 
from  the  thousand  bell-turrets  of  the  city;  the  rattle  of 
musketry  was  heard  at  regular  intervals.  The  burnt 
powder,  rising  from  all  quarters  in  great  clouds,  was 
the  incense  intended  to  delight  the  nose  of  the  master, 
if  from  the  summit  of  his  throne  in  Vienna  he  might 
turn  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  Adriatic. 

It  seems  to  us  that  in  this  homage  to  the  Emperor 
there  was  a  certain  ostentation  of  artillery,  a  certain 
luxuriousness  of  fusillades  with  a  double  motive.  This 
compliment  of  a  festival  of  cannonading  had  two  pur- 
poses, and  it  was  not  difficult  to  understand  them. 

We  made  the  rounds  of  the  Piazza.  A  Te  Deum  was 
chanted  in  the  Cathedral.  The  garrison,  in  full  dress, 
was  formed  into  a  square  on  the  Place,  kneeling  and  ris- 
ing at  a  signal  from  the  officers,  in  the  proper  places  in 
the  course  of  the  divine  office.  A  brilliant  staff  officer, 
all  bedecked  with  gilding  and  decorations,  occupied  the 
central  position  and  scintillated  proudly  in  the  sunlight', 
then  at  certain  times  the  muskets  were  raised  all  to- 
gether, and  the  heavy  fire  from  the  guns  made  white 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

whirlwinds  of  frightened  pigeons  fly  about  in  the  blue 
sky.  The  poor  pigeons  of  Saint  Mark,  dazed  by  that 
tumult,  and  believing  that  in  contempt  of  their  immun- 
ity a  great  slaughter  of  them  was  about  to  take  place, 
knew  not  where  to  hide  themselves ;  they  knocked 
against  each  other  in  the  air,  wild  with  terror,  beat 
themselves  against  the  cornices  and  fled  swiftly  over 
domes  and  chimneys ;  then,  silence  being  again  restored, 
they  returned  to  peck  familiarly  in  their  accustomed 
places,  even  at  the  feet  of  the  soldiers,  so  great  is  the 
force  of  habit. 

All  this  took  place  in  the  midst  of  the  most  complete 
solitude.  The  Piazza^  always  so  full  of  life,  was  deserted. 
Only  a  few  foreigners  ghded  about  in  small  groups  under 
the  Procuraties.  The  infrequent  spectators  who  were 
not  foreigners,  betrayed  by  their  blonde  locks,  their 
square  features,  their  Teutonic  descent.  No  woman's 
face  appeared  at  the  windows,  and  yet  the  sight  of  fine 
uniforms  worn  by  handsome  officers  is  appreciated  in 
every  country  in  the  world  by  the  more  lovely  half 
of  the  human  race.  Venice,  suddenly  depopulated, 
resembled  those  Oriental  cities  of  Arabian  tales  ravaged 
by  the  wrath  of  a  magician. 

This  uproar  in  this  silence,  this  bustle  in  this  empti- 
ness, this  immense  display  of  force  in  this  loneliness,  had 
about  it  something  strange,  painful,  alarming,  super- 
natural. This  people  feigning  death  while  their  op- 
pressors were  exulting  with  joy,  this  city  which  was 
suppressing  itself  in  order  not  to  assist  in  this  triumph, 
made  a  profound  and  peculiar  impression  upon  us.  Non- 
existence raised  to  a  state  of  manifestation,  speechlessness 
changed  into  menace,  absence  having  the  signification 
of  revolt,  are  resources  of  desj^air  to  whicli  despotism 
drives  slavery.  Assuredly  a  universal  hue,  a  general 
cry  of  malediction  against  the  Emperor  of  Austria  could 
not  have  been  more  energetic. 

[     250     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

The  discharges  of  artillery  continued  all  day,  and  the 
regiments  performed  evolutions  on  the  Piazza  and  the 
Piazetta  with  scarcely  any  spectators  except  themselves. 
Wearied  of  this  monotonous  diversion  we  went  for  our 
favorite  walk  along  the  bank  of  the  Schiavoni,  where  a 
few  Greeks  and  Armenians  were  sauntering.  There 
we  had  our  tympanum  cracked  again  by  the  cannon  of 
the  warship  anchored  in  the  port.  A  poor  httle  dog, 
tied  by  a  cord  fastened  to  the  mast  of  a  barge  belonging 
to  Zante  or  Corfu,  at  each  detonation  leaped  into  the 
air  crazy  with  fear  and  ran  around  in  a  circle  as  far  as 
the  cord  permitted,  protesting  with  all  his  might  against 
this  stupid  noise,  as  though  he  had  been  wounded  by  the 
sound.  We  were  of  the  same  opinion  as  the  dog,  and  as 
we  were  not  tied  by  a  string,  we  ran  away  to  Quintavalle, 
where  we  dined  under  the  arbor  of  Ser  Zuane,  at  a  bear- 
able distance  from  that  odious  military  din. 

In  the  evening  there  was  not  a  soul  at  the  Cafe  Flo- 
rian  I  Only  those  who  have  lived  in  Venice  can  have 
an  idea  of  the  immense  signification  of  this  simple  fact. 
The  flower-girls,  the  vendors  of  candy,  the  singers,  the 
exploiters  of  Chinese  puppets,  aud  even  the  ruffians, 
had  disappeared.  No  one  in  the  chairs,  no  one  on  the 
benches,  no  one  under  the  galleries;  there  was  no  one 
even  at  church,  as  though  it  were  useless  to  supplicate 
a  God  who  left  a  people  to  suffer  under  oppression. 

We  do  not  even  know  whether  on  that  evening  the 
little  tapers  before  the  Madonnas  of  the  street  corners 
were  hghted. 

The  music  of  the  retreat  played  in  deserto  a  magnifi- 
cent overture.  German  music,  however !  and  an  over- 
ture by  Weber,  if  we  remember  correctly! 

Not  knowing  how  to  pass  the  latter  part  of  this  lugu- 
brious evening,  we  entered  the  Apollo  theatre.  The 
dark  and  empty  boxes  seemed  like  niches  from  which 
coffins  had  been  removed ;  some  squads  of  Hungarians 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

half  filled  the  benches,  A  dozen  German  functionaries, 
flanked  by  their  mves  and  little  ones,  strove  to  multiply 
themselves  and  to  simulate  the  absent  public ;  but,  hav- 
ing deducted  the  soldiers,  the  big  hall  did  not  contain 
fifty  spectators.  A  poor  troupe  played  sadly  and  half- 
heartedly an  insipid  translation  of  a  French  piece  before 
a  row  of  smoky  foot-lights.  A  cold  sorrowfulness,  a 
deadly  ennui  fell  upon  us,  like  a  damp  and  icy  mantle. 
On  the  morrow,  the  sea-breeze  had  carried  away  the 
odor  of  the  powder.  The  pigeons,  reassured,  were  flut- 
tering around  on  the  Place  Saint  Mark,  and  all  the 
Venetians  were  ostentatiously  stuflB.ng  themselves  with 
ices  at  the  Caf^  Florian. 


CHAPTER    XXI 
THE   INSANE   ASYLUM 


THE  Isle  of  San  Servolo  is  situated  beyond  Saint 
Georges  on  the  great  lagune  going  towards  the 
Lido.  This  isle  is  very  small,  like  almost  all 
those  which  surround  Venice ;  pearls  plucked  from  the 
casket  of  the  seas.  It  is  almost  entirely  covered  with 
buildings,  and  its  ancient  convent,  in  which  several 
orders  of  monks  have  succeeded  each  other,  has  become 
a  hospital  for  the  insane  under  the  Brotherhood  of  Saint 
Jean  de  Dieu,  who  devote  themselves  especially  to  caring 
for  the  sick. 

When  we  left  the  landing  of  the  Place  Saint  Mark 
the  wind  was  against  us ;  the  water  of  the  lagune,  or- 
dinarily so  calm,  gave  itself  the  airs  of  an  ocean,  and  its 
little  ripples  endeavored  to  swell  themselves  into  billows  : 
the  foam  flew  under  the  toothed  beak  of  the  gondola  and 
the  waves  chopped  quite  noisily  against  the  sides  of  the 
vessel,  which  was  pushed  forward,  however,  by  two  vig- 
orous oarsmen  ;  for  our  little  Antonio  alone  would  not 
have  been  sufficient  to  struggle  against  the  stormy 
weather. 

We  danced  about  quite  enough  to  cause  a  stomach 
unaccustomed  to  the  motion  to  experience  the  nausea  of 
seasickness  ;  fortunately,  a  great  many  sea  crossings  had 
rendered  us  less  susceptible  to  this  malady,  and  we 
tranquilly  admired  the  dexterity  with  which  our  gondo- 
liers at  the  prow  and  at  the  poop  kept  their  equilibrium 
on  their  unsteady  flooring.  We  should  doubtless  have 
postponed  our  visit  but  for  the  fact  that  thus  far  we 
had  seen  Venice  only  under  its  blue  and  rosy  aspect, 
with  its  smooth  sea  scintillating  in  small  green  stretches, 

[     253     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

as  in  tlie  pictures  of  Canaletto,  and  we  did  not  wish  to 
lose  this  opportunity  to  see  the  effect  of  a  storm  upon  it. 

Certainl}'-,  azure  is  the  natural  background  upon  which 
the  milk-white  cupolas  of  Santa  JNIaria  della  Salute  and 
the  silver  caps  of  Saint  Mark  ought  to  stand  out ;  never- 
theless, great  masses  of  grayish  clouds  broken  by  streaks 
of  light,  a  sea  of  a  glaucous  tone,  festooned  with  foam, 
framing  the  frosty-looking  edifices  in  cold  tints,  produce 
a  great  English  aquarelle  in  the  style  of  Bonnington, 
Callow,  or  William  Wyld,  which  is  by  no  means  to  be 
despised. 

Such  was  the  spectacle  we  beheld  in  turning  around ; 
opposite  us  we  had  San  Servolo,  with  its  reddish  bell- 
turret  and  its  buildings  with  tiled  roofs  half  hidden  by 
the  clouds ;  further  on,  the  low,  dark  line  of  the  Lido  is 
visible,  separating  the  lagune  from  the  open  sea. 

Close  at  hand  there  filed  rapidly  past  us,  like  black 
swallows  skimming  the  waves,  a  number  of  gondolas  re- 
turning to  the  city,  flying  before  the  storm  and  pursued 
by  the  wind  which  was  against  us. 

At  last  we  arrived  at  the  wharf  of  San  Servolo,  and 
the  sea  caused  our  frail  boat  to  rock  to  such  an  extent 
that  we  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  ashore. 

There  is  nothing  very  strange  or  curious  about  the 
interior  of  the  convent-hospital:  there  are  long,  white- 
washed corridors,  halls  of  a  cold  propriety  and  monoto- 
nous regularity,  as  in  all  buildings  of  this  kind.  No  great 
amount  of  work  was  necessary  in  order  to  convert  the 
cells  of  the  monks  into  dungeons  for  the  insane.  In 
the  chapel,  a  gilded  retable,  a  few  blackened  and 
smoky  canvases  that  might  possibly  be  Tintorettos,  and 
that  is  all.  Moreover,  it  was  not  works  of  art  or  archi- 
tecture that  we  were  looking  for  in  this  Venetian  bedlam. 

Insanity  has  always  strangely  interested  us.  How  a 
material  organ  suffers,  is  impaired,  or  falls  into  decay, 
one  can  easily  conceive  ;  but  how  an  idea,  an  impalpable 
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JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

abstraction  can  be  injured  in  its  essence  is  scarcely 
comprehensible.  Lesions  of  the  brain  do  not  explain  in- 
sanity. At  what  point  does  thought  come  in  contact 
with  that  inflamed  or  softened  pulp  contained  in  the 
osseous  case  ?  In  ordinary  cases,  the  body  dies  and  the 
soul  flies  awa}^ ;  but  here  the  soul  dies  and  the  body  still 
lives ;  there  is  nothing  more  sinister  and  more  mysteri- 
ous. The  ship  sails  without  a  compass,  tlie  flame  has 
quitted  the  lamp,  and  life  no  longer  has  the  Ego.  Does 
the  obscured  soul  of  the  lunatic  regain  its  lucidity  after 
death,  or  are  there  souls  mad  tln-oughout  all  eternity? 
May  not  the  soul  be  neither  immaterial  nor  innnortal, 
since  it  can  be  sick  and  die?  Terrible  doubts,  deep 
abysses  over  which  one  leans  tremljlingly,  but  which 
attract  you  almost  irresistibly,  like  all  abysses. 

Moreover,  it  is  with  an  anxious  curiosity  mingled  with 
a  secret  terror,  that  we  look  upon  those  cadavers,  whose 
remnant  of  soul  serves  only  to  prevent  putrefaction, 
walking  around  the  walls  with  dull  eyes,  faded  cheeks, 
hanging  lips,  dragging  feet,  to  which  the  will  no  longer 
conveys  its  fluid,  making  gestvu-es  without  meaning,  like 
animals  or  broken-down  machines,  insensible  alike  to 
the  burning  sun  or  the  chilling  rain,  having  no  longer 
any  knowledge  of  themselves,  or  imagining  themselves 
to  be  others,  no  longer  discerning  objects  under  their 
real  aspects,  and  surrounded  by  a  world  of  weird  hal- 
lucinations. 

How  many  times  have  we  visited  Charenton,  Bicetre, 
and  other  asylums  for  the  insane,  disturbed  by  this  great, 
insoluble  problem,  and  engaged,  like  Hamlet  with  the 
skull  of  Yorick,  in  seekmg  the  crack  through  which 
the  soul  had  fled  like  water  from  a  pitcher.  But,  in 
our  case,  a  more  horrible  circumstance,  the  skull  was 
alive !  How  many  times  we  have  lingered  in  pensive 
mood  before  that  superb  psychological  engraving  of  Kaul- 
bach,  that  striking  and  saddening  poem  of  dementia ! 
[     255     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

In  the  corridors,  under  grayish  hats,  like  monstrous 
worms  dragging  themselves  upon  the  walls  after  the 
rain,  the  harmless  imbeciles  who  could  be  permitted  to 
wander  around  without  danger  to  themselves  or  othere, 
crept  about  aimlessly.  They  gazed  upon  us  with  dull 
eyes,  leering,  and  essaying  a  species  of  mechanical  salu- 
tation. 

Insanity,  which  is  increasing  to  an  alarming  extent, 
does  not  always  suspend  all  the  faculties.  Insane  folk 
have  written  poetry  and  painted  pictures  in  which  the 
recollection  of  certain  laws  of  art  had  survived  the  ship- 
wreck of  the  reason.  Quantity  is  often  carefull}^  ob- 
served in  the  poetry  of  complete  mental  aberration. 
Domenico  Theotocopuli,  the  Greek  painter  whose  work 
we  admired  in  the  churches  and  museums  of  Spain,  has 
painted  mad  masterpieces.  We  saw  in  England  furious 
combats  of  lions  and  stallions,  executed  by  a  madman 
upon  a  board,  into  which  he  burned  his  drawings  with 
the  red-hot  point  of  a  bar  of  iron,  and  which  had  the 
appearance  of  a  sketch  by  Gericault  rubbed  with  bitu- 
men. 

One  of  the  insane  at  San  Servolo,  although  not  an 
artist  by  profession,  had  a  mania  for  painting,  and  the 
good  brothers  of  Saint  John  de  Dieu,  who  make  it  a 
rule  not  to  oppose  their  patients  more  than  is  absolutely 
necessary,  had  given  over  to  him  for  the  exercise  of  his 
fancy,  a  large  expanse  of  wall,  upon  which  he  took 
pleasure  in  scrawling  the  strangest  imaginable  chimeras. 
This  insensate  fresco  represents  a  species  of  brick  facade, 
divided  into  arcades,  whose  emj)ty  spaces  formed  dens 
in  which  a  menagerie  of  the  most  extravagant  looking 
creatures  were  struggling  with  each  other. 

The  most  savage  canvases  of  the  traveling  booths  in 
which  heraldic  animals  and  Chinese  or  Japanese  mon- 
sters of  the  greatest  possible  weirdness  and  deformity 
are  exhibited  to  the   gaping  crowd,  are  creatures  of  a 

[     256     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

flat  and  commonplace  plausibility  in  comparison  with 
the  creations  of  this  delirious  mind.  The  fantasies  of 
the  absurd  dreams  of  Rabelais  applied  to  the  animal 
kingdom,  or  the  Apocalypse  transported  into  a  menag- 
erie, alone  could  convey  an  idea  of  them.  Add  to  this 
an  execution  of  preposterous  ignorance  and  truculent 
barbarity ;  there  were  eagles  with  four  heads  which  had 
torn  off  at  a  stroke  the  beak  of  the  double-necked  eagle 
of  Austria;  there  were  crowned  lions  with  mouths 
bristling  with  teeth  like  sharks,  so  fierce  of  aspect  that 
they  would  have  caused  the  lions  of  Saint  ]\lark  and 
of  Northumberland  to  recoil  with  fright;  pythons,  so 
twisted  up  in  their  folds  and  darting  such  forked 
tongues,  that  all  the  arrows  of  Apollo  in  the  ceiling  of 
Eugene  Delacroix  would  not  have  sufficed  to  pierce 
them ;  beasts  without  form  and  without  name,  the 
equivalents  of  which  could  scarcely  be  found  in  the 
world  of  the  microscope  or  the  caverns  of  antediluvian 
deposits. 

The  artist  of  this  fresco  of  dementia  firmly  believed 
in  the  existence  of  these  deformed  chimeras  and  claimed 
to  have  painted  them  from  nature. 

San  Servolo  contained  another  peculiar  crazy  man. 
He  was  a  man  belonging  to  the  lower  classes,  who  had 
lost  his  reason  as  the  result  of  a  fit  of  jealous  rage. 
His  wife  had  been  seduced  by  a  gondolier,  and  he  had 
surprised  them,  it  is  said,  together.  Every  time  that 
this  recollection  returned  to  him,  he  uttered  frightful 
shrieks,  rolled  on  the  ground  or  sank  his  teeth  into  the 
flesh  of  his  arms,  believing  that  he  was  devouring  his 
rival,  without  being  made  aware  by  the  pain  that  he  was 
staining  his  lips  -with  his  own  blood,  and  lacerating  his 
own  flesh.  There  was  but  one  thing  that  could  distract 
his  mind  from  this  raging  madness  —  the  sinking  of  an 
artesian  well  which  M.  Degous^e  was  engaged  in  upon 
the  island.  Water  was  one  of  the  needs  of  the  island, 
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JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

and  it  had  to  be  brought  from  Fusine  by  the  canal  of  the 
Brenta.  The  lunatic  became  interested  in  the  progress 
of  the  Avork  and  joined  the  laborers  with  much  dexter- 
ity and  energy.  When  satisfied  with  himself,  he  deco- 
rated his  person  with  crosses  of  honor,  discs  of  ^old  or 
silver  paper,  cordons  of  various  colors,  which  he  wore 
with  the  most  lofty  and  dignified  air,  as  a  diplomat 
wears  his  cross  in  the  salon  of  an  ambassador.  If  he 
was  lazy,  inattentive,  or  awkward,  he  degraded  himself, 
removed  his  insignia  and  addressed  himself  in  words  of 
reprobation,  assuming,  according  to  circumstances,  an 
humble  or  irritated  tone,  suited  to  the  character  of  the 
speaker  whom  he  was  personating.  The  monks  told  us 
that  his  criticisms  were  very  correct  and  that  he  treated 
himself  with  rigorous  severity.  Once  only  did  he  ex- 
cuse himself,  not  being  able  to  resist  the  eloquence  of 
the  supplications  which  he  addressed  to  himself. 

Other  insane  people  tranquilly  played  ball  in  a  sort 
of  barren  garden  surrounded  by  walls,  forming  the  point 
of  the  island  on  the  side  toward  the  Lido ;  two  or  three 
walked  with  hurried  steps,  pursued  by  some  terrifying 
hallucination.  Another,  thin,  wizened,  his  head  bared 
to  the  wind,  remained  motionless  as  a  heron  on  the 
border  of  a  marsh,  doubtless  believing  himself  to  be  the 
bird  whose  attitude  he  was  imitating. 

But  that  which  impressed  us  most  vividly  was  a 
young  monk,  who  with  his  back  against  a  wall  watched 
their  promenade.  Never  will  that  face  depart  from  our 
memory,  in  which  it  is  fixed  as  the  ideal  of  asceticism. 
Just  as  we  were  astonished  by  those  bodies  which  live 
without  souls,  we  had  suddenly  before  our  eyes  a  soul 
which  lived  without  the  body.  Here  the  spirit  alone 
shone,  mortifications  had  suppressed  matter ;  the  human 
being  was  annihilated. 

His  head,  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  hair  and  shaved 
on  its  upper  part,  seemed  to  have  become  green  with  ca- 

[      258      ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

daverous  tints.  One  might  say  that  the  mustiness  of 
the  sepulchre  had  already  covered  the  bluish  down  of 
his  skin  ;  his  eyes,  intoxicated  with  faith,  sparkled  from 
beneath  a  large  yellowish  bruise,  and  his  drooping  jaws 
were  joined  to  his  chin  by  two  lines  as  straight  as  the 
lines  of  a  triangle ;  when  he  lowered  his  head,  be- 
tween his  neck  and  the  cowl  of  his  robe  appeared  a 
string  of  vertebrte  on  which  this  meagre  spirit  of  the 
cloister  might  have  told  his  beads. 

His  trembling  hands,  the  color  of  yellow  wax,  were 
only  a  network  of  veins  and  nerves.  His  sleeves  flut- 
tered on  his  fleshless  arm  like  a  streamer  on  a  pole. 
His  robe  fell  from  his  shoulders  to  his  heels,  perfectly 
straight,  without  a  single  fold,  as  rigid  as  a  drapery  of 
Cimabue  or  of  Orcagna,  as  might  fall  the  winding-sheet 
of  a  corpse  or  of  a  spectre,  not  permitting  the  form  to  be 
divined  by  any  inflection.  Our  frightened  glance  sought 
to  find  the  man  under  this  brown  shroud ;  there  was 
nothing  there  but  a  shadow. 

The  kneeling  corpses  of  Zurbaran,  with  their  violet 
mouths,  their  leaden  tint,  the  pale  phantoms  of  Lesueur 
in  their  dazzling  linen,  would  have  appeared  as  Si- 
lenuses  and  Falstaffs  by  the  side  of  this  monk  of  San 
Servolo ;  never  did  the  consumptive  emaciation  of  the 
art  of  the  Middle  Ages,  never  the  ferocious  asceticism  of 
Spanish  painting  dare  to  go  so  far.  The  Saint  Bonaven- 
ture  of  Murillo  returning  to  write  his  memoirs  after  his 
death,  could  alone  give  an  idea  of  this  terrifying  figure, 
and  yet  he  would  have  been  less  emaciated,  less  hollow, 
less  green,  and  more  alive,  although  he  had  been  buried 
for  a  fortnight.  We  have  never  liked  the  monks  of 
Rabelais,  gross,  short,  big-bellied,  eating  heartily  and 
drinking  a  great  deal ;  and  Brother  Jean  des  Entommeures 
only  pleased  us  in  Gargantua  and  in  Pantagruel.  This 
one  delighted  us,  and  we  do  not  know  what  amiable 
pleasantry  the  Voltaireans  might  hazard  on  his  account. 
[     259     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

This  poor  monk  was  the  confessor  of  the  insane. 
What  a  terrible  and  sinister  occupation  !  to  hear  the  in- 
coherent avowals  of  these  troubled  souls,  to  elucidate 
the  cases  of  conscience  of  the  delirious,  to  receive  the 
confidences  of  hallucination,  to  see  grimacing  across  the 
bar  of  wood  the  convulsed  face,  the  idiot  laugh,  the 
imbecile  watering  of  the  eyes,  to  confess  the  menagerie  ! 
We  were  no  longer  astonished  at  his  strange  look,  his 
skeleton-like  thhmess,  and  his  deadly  pallor. 

How  could  he  undertake  to  introduce  the  idea  of 
God  into  these  eternal  repetitions  of  dementia,  into  this 
garrulousness  of  idiocy?  What  could  he  say  to  those 
unhappy  beings  who  had  no  longer  a  soul,  who  could 
not  sin,  and  with  whom  even  crime  is  innocent  ? 

Could  he  wave  before  these  poor  broken-down  imagi- 
nations the  red  braziers  of  hell,  in  order  to  restrain, 
through  terror,  their  depraved  fantasies?  or  does  he 
open  to  their  hopes  some  infantile  paradise  far  away 
over  the  sea,  with  grassy  swards  bedecked  with  flowers, 
upon  which  the  white  doves  feed,  where  the  peacocks 
drag  their  starry  tails,  where  rivulets  of  cream  trickle 
from  rock-work  of  meringues,  —  a  heaven  of  pastry  and 
confectionery? 

During  our  visit  the  weather  became  calm  to  such  an 
extent  that  we  resolved  to  take  advantage  of  what 
daylight  was  left  us  to  go  on  to  the  Lido.  There  are  at 
the  Lido  some  country  taverns  where  the  common  people 
go  to  dine  and  dance  on  feast  days.  This  is  not  the 
mainland;  still  some  few  trees  grow  there.  Meagre 
tufts  of  grass  make  not  very  successful  efforts  in  the 
way  of  producing  lawns  ;  but  the  good-will  is  taken  for 
the  deed,  and  the  foot  which  has  glided  all  the  week 
over  the  flagstones  of  Venice  is  not  sorry  to  bury  itself 
in  the  shifting  sands  which  the  sea  heaps  up. 

As  it  was  a  week-day,  the  Lido  was  deserted  and  of  an 
aspect  not  at  all  gay.  But  the  tumult  of  a  popular  joy 
[     260     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

would  have  been  uncongenial  to  us  at  this  moment; 
and  the  solitude  of  this  barren  strand  fitted  in  with  the 
serious  nature  of  our  thoughts.  We  walked  the  length 
of  that  beach  where  the  great  Byron  used  to  gallop  his 
horses,  and  where  the  Venetians  come  in  droves  to  bathe. 
The  beautiful  countrj^-women  of  Titian  and  Paul  Ver- 
onese hide  themselves  while  disrobing  behind  frail  tents 
upheld  by  sticks ;  since  the  wheeled  cabinet  of  Dieppe 
and  Biarritz  has  fortunately  not  penetrated  thus  far. 

As  the  weather  was  chilly  we  did  not  have  any  anac- 
reontic encounter,  and  re-embarking  upon  our  gondola 
we  returned  to  the  Place  Saint  Mark,  where,  after  hav- 
ing heard  the  music  of  the  retreat,  we  retired  to  our 
Campo  San  Mose  to  sleep  a  troubled  slumber  in  wliich 
the  monk  of  San  Servolo,  the  features  of  the  insane,  and 
the  fantastic  monsters  of  the  fresco  were  combined  in  a 
nightmare  as  extravagant  and  sombre  as  a  romance  of 
Lewis  or  of  Mathurin. 


[     261     ] 


CHAPTER    XXII 
SAINT   BLAISE— THE   CAPUCHINS 


THERE  is  no  one  who,  at  least  once  in  his  life, 
has  not  been  possessed  by  a  musical  motif,  a  frag- 
ment of  poetr}^  a  shred  of  talk,  heard  by  chance 
and  which  pursues  him  everywhere  with  the  stubborn- 
ness of  a  spectre. 

A  monotonous  voice  keeps  whispering  in  one  ear  the 
accursed  subject,  a  mute  orchestra  plays  at  the  base  of 
your  brain,  your  pillow  repeats  it  to  you,  your  dreams 
murmur  it  to  you,  an  invincible  power  forces  you  to 
mumble  it  imbecilely  from  morning  till  night  like  a 
devotee  droning  her  litany. 

For  a  week,  a  song  of  Alfred  de  Musset,  —  an  imita- 
tion, no  doubt,  of  some  old  popular  Venetian  poem,  — 
has  hovered  on  our  lips  like  the  chirping  of  a  bird,  with- 
out our  being  able  to  make  it  fly  away.  In  spite  of 
ourselves  we  hum  under  our  breath  in  the  most  incon- 
gruous situations : 

A  Saint-Blaise  a  la  Zuecca, 
Voiis  etiez,  vous  6tiez  bien  aise 
A  Saint-Blaise. 
A  Saint-Blaise,  k  la  Zuecca, 
Nous  6tions  bien  la. 

Mais  de  vous  en  souvenir 

Prendrez-vous  la  peine 
Mais  de  vous  en  souvenir 

Et  d'y  revenir. 

A  Saint-Blaise  h,  la  Zuecca, 
Dans  les  pr^s  fleuris  cueillir  la  vei'veine  : 
A  Saint-Blaise  a  la  Zuecca, 
Vivre  et  mourir  la. 

[     2G2     ] 


VENICE 

The  Schiavoni  Quay  from  the  Custom  House 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

La  Zuecca  (abbreviation  of  la  Gmdecca')  was  before 
us,  separated  only  by  the  width  of  the  Canal,  and  noth- 
ing could  be  easier  for  us  than  to  go  to  this  Saint  Blaise 
of  which  the  song  makes  a  species  of  Isle  of  Cythera,  a 
languorous  Eldorado,  a  terrestrial  paradise  of  life,  where 
it  would  be  sweet  to  live  and  die.  A  few  strokes  of  the 
oars  would  have  conducted  us  thither ;  but  we  resisted 
the  temptation,  knowing  that  it  is  necessary  to  keep 
away  from  enchanted  shores  unless  one  wishes  to  see 
the  mirage  dissolve  in  vapor,  and  we  continued  to  be 
insufferable  with  our  refrain  : 

A  Saint-Blaise,  a  la  Zuecca, 

which  began  to  become  what  is  called  a  saw,  in  the 
slang  of  the  studio  —  a  saw  with  fine  teeth,  although 
without  malice  on  our  part.  Moreover,  our  traveling 
companion,  our  dear  Louis  who  for  a  week  had  toler- 
ated this  melody,  importunate  as  the  buzzing  of  a  mos- 
quito, with  that  charming  placidity  and  imperceptible 
smile  which  gives  his  head,  with  the  beard  of  Kabyle, 
so  fine  and  sympathetic  an  expression,  could  no  longer 
contain  himself,  and  he  said  one  morning  to  the  young 
Antonio,  upon  putting  his  foot  into  the  gondola,  "A 
Saint  Blaise,  a  la  Zuecca  !  "  For  the  purpose  of  disgust- 
ing us  with  it,  he  caused  us  to  be  conducted  to  the 
midst  of  our  dreams  and  of  our  refrain  —  an  excel- 
lent homoeopathic  remedy. 

We  found  our  Saint  Blaise  not  yet  in  bloom,  and  we 
were  unable,  to  our  great  regret,  to  pluck  there  a  single 
lemon-blossom.  Around  the  church  extended  patches 
of  cultivation, —  marshy  gardens  in  which  vegetables 
took  the  place  of  flowers.  Our  disappointment  pre- 
vented us  from  admiring  some  very  fine  grapes  and 
some  superb  pumpkins.  It  is  probable  that  at  the  time 
the  song  was  composed,  the  point  of  the  island  was  oc- 
cupied by  undulating  ground,  the  fresh  grass  of  which 

[     263     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

was  besprinkled  with  the  flowers  of  spring,  and  where 
loving  couples  were  wont  to  stroll,  hand  in  hand,  gaz- 
ing at  the  moon. 

An  old  Venetian  guide-book  describes  the  Zuecca  as 
a  place  full  of  gardens,  orchards,  and  delightful  spots. 
Instead  of  a  favorite  flower  of  soft  colors  and  pene- 
trating perfume,  expanding  amidst  the  green  turf,  to 
encounter  tun-bellied  pumpkins  yellowing  under  big 
leaves,  is  something  calculated  to  calm  the  most  ardent 
poetic  enthusiasm,  and  from  that  moment  we  sang  no 
more  — 

A  Saint-Blaise,  a  la  Zuecca. 

In  order  to  make  the  best  of  our  jaunt,  we  went 
along  the  island  as  far  as  the  Church  of  the  Redeemer, 
situated  near  a  convent  of  Capuchin  monks.  This 
church  has  one  of  those  beautiful  Greek  facades  of  an 
elegant  style  and  harmonious  proportions,  like  those 
which  Palladio  so  well  knew  how  to  draw.  These 
specimens  of  architecture  are  very  pleasing  to  people  of 
taste.  They  are  sober,  pure,  and  classical.  At  the 
risk  of  being  accused  of  barbarity  of  taste,  we  admit  that 
they  have  very  little  charm  for  us.  We  recognize  only, 
as  proper  for  Catholic  churches,  the  Byzantine,  Roman, 
or  Gothic  styles.  The  Grecian  art  was  so  appropriate 
to  polytheism  that  it  is  difScult  to  connect  it  with  any 
other  thought.  Moreover,  churches  built  according  to 
its  plans,  have  in  no  degree  the  religious  stamp  in  the 
sense  we  attach  to  that  word ;  the  luminous  antique 
serenity,  with  its  perfect  rhythm  and  its  logic  of  forms, 
cannot  render  the  vague,  infinite,  profound,  mysterious 
meanings  of  Christianity.  The  unalterable  gaiety  of 
paganism  does  not  comprehend  the  incurable  Christian 
melancholy,  and  Greek  architecture  produces  only,  so 
far  as  its  temples  are  concerned,  palaces,  bourses,  dance- 
halls,  and  galleries  more  or  less  ornate,  in  which  Jupi- 

[     264     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

ter  might  find  comfort,  but  in  which  the  Saviour  could 
house  himself  with  difficulty. 

If  the  style  be  allowed,  the  Church  of  the  Redeemer 
makes  a  sufficiently  beautiful  appearance  on  the  bank 
of  the  Canal,  in  which  it  admires  itself  with  its  grand 
monumental  staircase  of  seventeen  marble  steps,  its  tri- 
angular pediment,  its  Corinthian  columns,  its  doorway 
and  its  bronze  statues,  its  two  towers  and  its  white  cu- 
pola, which  make  such  a  fine  effect  in  the  sunsets  when 
one  drifts  in  the  offing  in  his  gondola  between  the  Pub- 
lic Gardens  and  Saint  George. 

This  church  was  erected  in  fulfilment  of  a  vow  made 
by  the  Senate  in  order  to  avert  the  plague  of  1576, 
which  caused  a  frightful  mortality  in  the  city,  and  car- 
ried off,  among  other  illustrious  personages,  Titian, 
that  patriarch  of  painters,  loaded  with  years  and  with 
glory. 

The  interior  is  very  simple,  even  a  trifle  bare. 
Whether  money  was  wanting  or  from  some  wholly  dif- 
ferent cause,  the  statues  which  appear  to  fill  the  niches 
along  the  nave  are  only  deceptive  imitations  skilfully 
executed  in  monotone  by  Father  Piazza,  the  Capuchin. 
The  niches  are  real,  but  the  statues,  painted  on  boards, 
betray  their  secret  by  the  absence  of  thickness  when 
seen  in  profile,  for  in  front  they  offer  a  complete  illusion. 
This  same  Piazza  has  painted  in  the  refectory  of  the  con- 
vent a  scene  on  which  the  letter  P  appears  signed  six 
times,  which  is  interpreted  in  the  following  manner: 
"  Pietro  Paolo  Piazza  Per  Pom  Prezzo'''  —  Peter  Paul  Pi- 
azza, for  a  small  price.  He  had  undoubtedly  been 
poorly  paid  for  his  work  and  revenged  himself  in  this 
manner. 

As  for  the  paintings,  it  would  be  necessary  to  recom- 
mence the  usual  litany,  —  Tintoretto,  Bassan,  Paul 
Veronese,  —  and  we  have  no  intention  of  enumerating 
them  for  you  one  after  another. 

[     265     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

There  is  such  an  abundance  of  fine  paintings  in 
Venice  that  one  finally  becomes  almost  discouraged  in 
regard  to  them  and  is  led  to  believe  that  in  those  days 
it  was  not  more  difficult  to  execute  a  superb  church 
picture  than  it  is  nowadays  for  one  familiar  with  the 
pen  to  scribble  a  page.  Still,  we  recommend  to  the 
traveler  a  Jean  Bellin  of  great  beauty,  which  adorns  the 
sacristy.  The  subject  is  that  of  the  Holy  Virgin  with 
the  Infant  Jesus,  between  Saint  Jerome  and  Saint  Fran- 
cis: the  Divine  Mother  regards  with  an  air  of  profound  , 
adoration  the  Bambino  asleep  upon  her  lap.  Little  smil- 
ing angels  playing  the  guitar  hover  upon  a  background 
of  ultramarine.  It  is  well  known  with  what  delicacy, 
what  feeling,  what  virginity  of  soul,  Jean  Bellin  treated 
his  familiar  scenes  with  his  pencil ;  but  here,  besides  the 
innocent  charm  of  the  composition,'  the  Gothic  fidelity 
of  design,  there  is  a  splendor  of  coloring,  a  blonde 
warmth  of  tone,  which  reminds  one  of  Giorgione.  More- 
over, some  connoisseurs  attribute  this  picture  to  Palma 
the  elder.  We  believe  it  to  be  the  work  of  Jean  Bellin  ; 
the  unusual  brilliancy  of  coloring  is  due  solely  to  the 
more  perfect  preservation  of  the  painting.  Venice  is 
so  naturally  colorist,  that  the  gray  is  impossible  there, 
even  for  draughtsmen,  and  even  the  most  severe  Gothics 
in  Venice  gild  their  asceticism  with  Giorgionesque 
amber. 

Two  or  three  Capuchin  monks  at  prayer  would  have 
given  to  this  church,  if  it  had  been  less  brilliantly  lighted, 
the  air  of  one  of  those  pictures  of  Granet  so  much  ad- 
mired twenty  years  ago.  One  of  them  was  humbly 
sweeping  the  choir,  and  we  asked  him  if  we  might  visit 
the  monastery.  He  assented  to  our  request  with  much 
politeness  and  caused  us  to  enter  the  cloister  by  a  little 
side  door  of  the  church. 

We  had  for  a  long  time  cherished  a  desire  to  visit  the 
interior  of  an  inhabited  monastery.     In  Spain  we  were 

[     266     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

unable  to  gratify  this  religious  and  picturesque  wish,  as 
the  monks  had  been  secularized,  and  the  convents,  as  in 
France  after  the  Revolution,  had  become  national  prop- 
erty. We  walked  melancholily  through  the  Chartreuse 
of  Miraflores,  near  Burgos,  where  we  found  only  one 
old  father  accoutered  in  black  vestments  midway  be- 
tween the  costume  of  a  peasant  and  that  of  a  priest, 
who  smoked  his  cigarette,  and  who  guided  us  through 
the  deserted  corridors  and  abandoned  cloisters,  on  which 
empty  cells  opened.  At  Toledo,  the  convent  of  Saint 
Jean  des  Rois,  an  admirable  ruined  edifice,  contained 
only  some  frightened  lizards  and  furtive  adders  whom 
the  noise  of  our  footsteps  caused  to  disappear  under  the 
brambles  and  rubbish.  The  refectory  was  still  almost 
entire,  and  above  the  doorway  a  frightful  painting  dis- 
played a  corpse  in  a  state  of  putrefaction,  from  the  stom- 
ach of  which  was  issuing,  mingled  with  bloody  matter, 
the  unclean  hosts  of  the  sepulchre ;  this  piece  had  for  its 
purpose  the  repression  of  the  sensuality  of  the  repast 
which  was  served  nevertheless  with  an  eremitic  auster- 
ity. The  Chartreuse  of  Grenada  contained  nothing  but 
turtles,  which  jumped  hurriedly  into  the  water  of  the 
fish-pond  on  the  approach  of  a  visitor;  and  the  magnifi- 
cent convent  of  San  Domingo,  on  the  slope  of  the  Ante 
Querula,  listened,  in  the  most  profound  solitude,  to  the 
babbling  of  its  fountains  and  the  rustling  of  the  branches 
of  its  laurel-trees. 

The  Capuchin  monastery  of  the  Zuecca  did  not  greatly 
resemble  those  admirable  edifices  with  their  long  white 
marble  cloisters,  their  elegantly  carved  arcades,  marvels 
of  the  Middle  Ages  or  of  the  Renaissance,  their  courts 
planted  with  jasmines,  myrtles,  and  rose-laurels,  their 
gushing  fountains,  their  cells  permitting  the  view  from 
their  windows  of  the  blue  velvet,  frosted  with  silver,  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada.  It  was  not  one  of  those  splendid 
asylums  in  which  austerity  is  only  an  additional  charm 
[     267     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

for  the  soul  and  to  which  the  philosopher  can  accommo- 
date himself  as  well  as  the  Christian. 

The  cloister  was  not  reheved  by  any  architectural 
adornment,  —  low  arcades,  short  pillars,  —  a  prison  yard 
rather  than  a  promenade  ground  for  the  purpose  of 
revery.  A  wretched  roof  of  tiles  of  a  strident  red 
covered  the  whole.  It  did  not  even  possess  that  severe, 
sad  nakedness,  those  cold,  gray  tones,  that  soberness 
favorable  to  reflection ;  a  harsh,  flickering  light  crudely 
liglited  these  poor  details,  and  exaggerated  the  prosaic 
and  trivial  poverty.  In  the  garden,  which  was  partly 
visible  from  the  cloisters,  could  be  seen  rows  of  cabbages 
and  vegetables  of  a  harsh  green.  There  was  not  a 
shrub,  not  a  flower,  ever}'-thing  was  sacrificed  to  a  strict 
utility. 

We  next  penetrated  into  the  interior  of  the  convent 
through  passages  intersecting  each  other  at  right  angles. 
At  the  end  of  these  corridors  were  little  shrines  built  in 
the  walls  and  colored  with  rude  frescoes  in  honor  of  the 
Madonna  or  of  some  saint  of  the  order. 

The  windows,  with  panes  soldered  with  lead,  afforded 
some  light,  but  without  producing  those  effects  of  hght 
and  shade  which  painters  know  how  to  put  to  such  good 
use.  One  might  say  that  in  this  building  everything 
was  calculated  in  order  to  produce  the  greatest  amount 
of  ugliness  in  the  least  possible  space. 

Here  and  there  were  hanging  engravings  pasted  upon 
canvas,  representing,  by  an  infinity  of  little  medallions, 
all  the  saints,  all  the  cardinals,  all  the  prelates,  all  the 
illustrious  personages  furnished  by  the  order, —  a  species 
of  genealogical  tree  of  that  impersonal  family,  renewed 
without  cessation. 

Low  doors  at  regular  intervals  marked  the  long  white 
lines  of  the  walls.  Over  each  of  these  could  be  read  a 
religious  reflection,  a  prayer,  one  of  those  brief  Latin 
maxims  which  contain  a  world  of  ideas.     To  the  in- 

[     2G8     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

scription  was  added  an  image  of  tlie  Virgin,  or  the  por- 
trait of  a  saint  or  holy  woman,  the  special  object  of 
devotion  of  the  occupant  of  the  cell. 

A  vast  roof  of  tiles,  supported  by  a  visible  framework, 
covered,  without  touching  them,  the  cells  of  these 
monastic  bees,  hke  a  lid  placed  upon  rows  of  boxes. 

We  heard  a  bell  ring,  denoting  a  meal  or  perhaps  a 
call  to  prayer  or  some  other  ascetic  exercise.  The  doors 
of  the  cells  opened,  and  the  passages,  a  moment  before 
deserted,  were  filled  with  an  array  of  monks  who,  with 
lowered  heads,  their  long  beards  extending  to  their 
breasts,  took  up  their  line  of  march  two  by  two,  toward 
that  part  of  the  convent  to  which  the  ringing  of  the  bell 
called  them.  When  they  raised  their  feet,  their  sandals 
leaving  their  heels  made  a  sort  of  very  monastic  and 
very  lugubrious  clapping,  which  rhymed  sorrowfully 
with  their  spectre-like  march. 

As  many  as  forty  passed  before  us,  and  we  saw  only 
thick-skulled,  dull,  brutish  heads,  without  character,  in 
spite  of  the  beard  and  shaven  crown.  Ah !  how  differ- 
ent from  that  monk  of  San  Servolo,  so  consumed  with 
ardor,  so  calcined  by  faith,  so  torn  by  macerations,  and 
whose  feverish  eye  already  shone  with  the  light  of  the 
other  world,  the  ecstatic  confessor  of  delirium !  Daniel 
in  the  midst  of  lions  1 

We  certainly  entered  this  convent  with  feelings  which, 
if  not  pious,  were  at  least  respectful.  If  we  have  no 
faith  ourselves,  we  at  least  admire  it  in  others,  and  if  we 
cannot  believe,  at  least  we  can  understand.  We  had 
prepared  ourselves  to  feel  all  the  austere  poetry  of  the 
cloister,  and  we  were  very  cruelly  disappointed. 

The  convent  had  upon  us  the  effect  of  a  sick-room,  of 
an  insane  asylum,  or  of  the  barracks.  A  nauseating 
odor  as  of  a  human  menagerie  took  us  by  the  nose  and 
disheartened  us.  If  one  could  say  of  certain  holy  per- 
sonages that  they  had  the  madness  of  the  cross,  stultitiam 
[     269     ] 


JOUENEYS      IN      ITALY 

crucis,  it  seemed  to  us  that  these  monks  had  that  idiocy ; 
and  in  spite  of  ourselves  our  spirit  rebelled,  and  we 
blushed  for  God  on  account  of  such  a  degradation  of  the 
creatures  made  in  His  image. 

We  were  ashamed  that  a  hundred  men  should  gather 
themselves  in  such  a  hole  in  order  to  be  dirty  and  to 
stink  according  to  certain  rules  in  honor  of  Him  who 
had  created  eighty  million  species  of  flowers.  That  nau- 
seating incense  revolted  us,  and  we  experienced  in  re- 
gard to  those  poor  Capuchin  fathers  an  involuntary  and 
secret  horror. 

We  could  not  refrain  from  asking  this  question  of 
ourselves,  viz. :  Would  it  not  be  better  for  these  robust 
fellows,  made  for  the  plough,  to  throw  their  frocks  aside, 
return  to  human  life  and  gain  their  salvation  by  work- 
ing for  it,  instead  of  going  without  a  shirt  and  of  trail- 
ing their  sandals  along  the  cloister  in  idleness  and 
brutishness  ? 

When  we  went  out  from  the  convent,  two  of  the 
fathers  who  had  business  in  Venice  begged  us  to  take 
them  in  our  gondola  across  the  canal  of  the  Giudecca 
By  reason  of  hvimility  they  would  not  accept  the  place 
of  honor  under  the  fclce  wliich  we  offered  them,  and 
stood  up  near  the  prow.  They  made  quite  a  good  ap- 
pearance, too ;  their  brown  frocks  formed  two  or  three 
great  folds  which  Fra  Bartolomeo  woidd  not  have  dis- 
dained for  the  robe  of  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi.  Their 
naked  feet  in  their  sandals  were  very  fine,  the  big  toe 
separated,  the  toes  long,  as  in  the  feet  of  ancient 
statues. 

We  gave  them  some  money  to  say  masses  for  us. 
The  Voltairean  ideas  which  had  been  working  in  us  all 
the  time  of  our  visit  deserved  such  Christian  submission 
on  our  part,  and  if  it  was  the  devil  who  had  aroused 
them  he  ought  to  have  felt  tricked  and  begun  to  bite  liis 
tail  like  a  monkey  in  a  rage. 

[     270     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

The  good  fathers  took  the  money,  slipping  it  in  the 
fold  of  their  robe,  and  perceiving  us  to  be  such  good 
CathoKcs,  gave  us  some  little  images  which  we  have 
carefully  preserved:  Saint  Moise,  prophet;  Saint  Francis ; 
some  other  bearded  saints  and  a  certain  Veronica 
Giuliani,  a  Capuchin  abbess,  whose  head  is  upturned  and 
whose  eyes  swim  in  ecstasy  like  those  of  the  Spanish 
Saint  Theresa,  who  complained  to  the  devil  of  not  being 
able  to  love,  and  has  not  been  placed  on  the  Index  as 
we  were  for  an  idea  of  the  same  nature.  We  landed 
the  good  fathers  at  the  quay  of  San  Mose,  and  they 
quickly  disappeared  in  the  narrow  lanes. 

The  day  had  not  been  a  favorable  one  for  illusions ; 
at  Saint  Blaise,  at  the  Zuecca,  the  pumpkin  replaced  the 
lemon  blossoms,  and  where  we  counted  upon  finding  a 
stern  cloister  with  livid  monks  after  the  manner  of  Zur- 
buran  we  had  encountered  an  ignoble  monastery  with 
monks  like  those  of  the  colored  lithographs  of  Schles- 
inger.  This  deception  was  especially  cruel  for  us; 
since,  for  a  long  time  we  had  hugged  the  dream  of 
finishing  our  days  under  a  monk's  frock  in  some  beauti- 
ful convent  of  Italy  or  Portugal,  at  Mont  Cassin  or  at 
Maffra,  and  now  we  had  no  more  desire  for  such  a  life 
at  all. 


[     271     ] 


TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTifT 

CHAPTER    XXIII 
THE    CHURCHES 


WITH  the  exception  of  Saint  Mark's,  a  marvel 
which  has  no  analogue  except  the  Mosque  of 
Constantinople  and  the  Mosque  of  Cordova, 
the  churches  of  Venice  are  not  very  remarkable  in  the 
matter  of  architecture,  or  at  least  have  nothing  likely  to 
surprise  the  traveler  who  has  visited  the  cathedrals  of 
France,  of  Spain,  and  of  Belgium.  Save  some  few  which 
date  farther  back,  they  all  belong  to  the  Renaissance  and 
to  the  rococo  genre,  which,  in  Italy,  very  quickly  followed 
the  return  to  classic  traditions.  The  first  are  in  the 
Palladian  style  ;  the  latter  of  a  peculiar  type  which  we 
will  call  Jesuit.  Almost  all  the  old  churches  of  the  city 
have  been  unfortunately  rebuilt  under  the  one  or  the 
other  of  these  influences. 

Certainly  Palladio,  as  so  many  noble  edifices  prove 
him,  was  an  architect  of  great  merit ;  but  he  had  nothing 
of  the  Cathohc  feeling,  and  was  more  fitted  to  rebuild 
the  temples  of  Diana  of  Ephesus,  and  the  Panhellenic 
Jupiter  than  to  erect  a  basilica  of  the  Nazarene  or  some 
martyr  of  the  Golden  Legend.  He  has  pilfered  hke  a 
bee  the  honey  of  Hymettus,  and  put  aside  in  his  flight 
the  flowers  of  the  Passion.  As  far  as  the  Jesuit  style  is 
concerned,  with  its  gibbous  domes,  its  stumpy  columns, 
its  bloated  cherubs,  its  distorted  volutes  like  the  flourishes 
of  Joseph  Prudhomme,  its  emasculated  angels,  its  big  en- 
dives like  cabbages,  its  unhealthy  affectations  and  its 
fiery  ornamentations,  which  might  be  taken  for  excres- 
cences of  sick  stone,  we  profess  for  ourselves  an  insur- 
mountable horror.  It  more  than  displeases  us,  it  dis- 
gusts us.     Nothing,    according  to    our   view,    is   more 

[     272     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

opposed  to  the  Christian  idea  than  this  unclean  litter 
of  devotees,  than  this  display  without  beauty,  without 
grace,  overloaded  and  heavy  as  a  luxuriousness  of  the 
languid,  which  makes  the  chapel  of  the  Most  Holy  Virgin 
resemble  the  boudoir  of  an  opera  girl.  The  Church  of 
the  Scalzi  is  of  this  order,  a  model  of  extravagant  rich- 
ness ;  the  walls  incrusted  with  colored  marble,  repre- 
sent an  immense  tapestry  of  green  and  white  flowered 
damask ;  the  frescoed  ceilings  by  Tiepoletto  and  Laz- 
zarini,  of  a  gay,  light,  clear  tone,  in  which  the  rose  and 
azure  are  tlie  dominating  colors,  would  be  marvelously 
appropriate  for  a  ball-room  or  a  theatre.  It  ought  to 
be  charming,  fvdl  of  powdered  abbes  and  beautiful  ladies 
of  the  times  of  Casanova  or  of  the  Cardinal  of  Bernis, 
during  a  musical  mass  by  Porpora,  with  violins  and  the 
choirs  of  the  Fenice.  In  truth,  nothing  could  be  more 
natural  than  to  worship  the  Eternal  in  such  a  place  with 
dance-tunes.  But  how  much  more  do  we  prefer  the 
low  Romanesque  arcades,  the  stocky  pillars  of  porphyry 
with  antique  capitals,  the  barbarous  images  which  stand 
out  upon  the  glitter  of  gold  of  the  Byzantine  mosaics, 
or  even  still  more  the  long  ribs,  the  slender  columns  and 
the  carved  trefoils,  cut  out  as  though  by  machinery,  of 
the  Gothic  cathedrals  ! 

These  defects  of  architecture  to  which  it  is  necessary 
to  become  resigned  in  Italy,  since  almost  all  the  churches 
are  built  more  or  less  in  this  style,  are  compensated  for 
by  the  number  and  beauty  of  the  objects  of  art  which 
these  edifices  contain.  If  one  may  not  admire  the 
casket,  he  still  can  admire  the  jewels.  There  only  are 
Titian,  Paul  Veronese,  Tintoretto,  the  Palmas,  elder  and 
younger,  Jean  Bellin,  the  Paduan,  Bonifazio  and  other 
marvelous  masters.  Each  chapel  has  its  museum,  which 
would  confer  honor  upon  a  king.  This  very  Church  of 
the  Scalzi,  overlooking  its  general  style,  offers  remark- 
able details :  its  broad  staircase  in  red  brocatelle  of 
[     273     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

Verona,  its  beautiful  truncated  columns  in  marble  from 
France,  its  gigantic  prophets,  its  stone  balustrades,  its 
doors  of  mosaic,  have  a  certain  style  and  are  not  lack- 
ing in  grandeur.  It  contains  a  very  fine  picture  by  Jean 
Bellin,  the  Virgin  and  Child;  a  magnificent  bronze 
bas-relief  by  Sansovino,  and  a  group  less  severe  artis- 
tically, but  still  charming,  by  Toretti,  the  master  of 
Canova ;  a  Holy  Family,  Saint  Joseph,  the  Virgin  and 
Child  Jesus.  The  Virgin  has  a  fine  figure,  plump,  a 
coquettish  pose  of  the  head,  and  extremities  of  a  wholly 
aristocratic  delicacy.  She  has  the  air  of  a  duchess  of 
the  Court  of  Louis  XV,  and  one  cannot  otherwise 
imagine  Madame  de  Pompadour.  Some  ballet  angels, 
the  work  of  Marcel,  accompany  this  pretty  worldly 
group.  This  is  not  religious,  of  a  surety ;  but  this  af- 
fected and  spirituelle  grace  has  a  great  deal  of  charm  and 
this  sculptor  of  the  Decadence  is  withal  a  great  artist. 

The  Church  of  Saint  Sebastian,  built  by  S.  Serlio,  is 
in  some  sort  the  picture  gallery  and  the  Pantheon  of 
Paul  Veronese.  He  worked  there  many  years,  he  re- 
poses there  eternally  in  the  aureole  of  his  chefs  (Vmuvre. 
His  monumental  stone  is  there  surmounted  by  his  bust, 
escutcheoned  with  his  arms,  three  trefoils  on  a  field 
which  we  could  not  distinguish.  Let  us  admire  this 
Saint  Sebastian  of  Titian :  what  a  beautiful  head  of  an 
old  woman,  what  a  superb  and  lofty  bearing,  and  what 
a  pretty  and  innocent  motion  is  that  of  the  child  who 
holds  the  mitre  of  the  holy  bishop !  But  let  us  pass 
quickly  to  reach  the  master  of  the  place,  the  great  Paolo 
Caliari.  The  three  Marys  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  are 
noticeable  on  account  of  that  magnificent  co-ordination, 
that  sufiicient  amplitude  characteristic  of  this  painter, 
who  has  never  been  equalled  in  the  art  of  furnishing  the 
empty  spaces  of  great  compositions.  The  brocades,  the 
damasks,  break  in  opulent  folds,  and  the  Christ  on 
the  tree  of  suffering  cannot  conceal  a  vague  half  smile,  — 

[     274     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

the  joy  of  being  so  well  painted  consoles  Him  in  His 
agony.  The  Magdalen  is  adorably  beautiful ;  her  grand 
eyes  are  drowned  in  light  and  in  tears  ;  a  tear  still  hang- 
ing trembles  at  the  side  of  her  purplish  mouth,  like  a 
drop  of  rain  upon  a  rose.  The  background  of  the  land- 
scape is  unfortunately  a  little  too  much  like  the  scenery 
of  the  theatre.  "  The  Presentation  of  Jesus  Christ  in  the 
Temple  "  is  also  a  very  remarkable  canvas  in  spite  of  the 
large-limbed  personages  placed  in  the  foreground  of 
the  picture  ;  but  the  head  of  Saint  Simeon  is  of  a  divine 
unction  and  of  a  marvelous  execution,  and  the  Child 
Jesus  is  presented  with  an  audacity  of  foreshortening 
that  is  astonishing.  In  the  corner  of  the  picture  a  dog, 
with  its  nose  mournfully  raised  in  the  air,  seems  to  bay 
at  the  moon.  There  is  nothing  to  justify  the  presence 
of  this  isolated  animal,  but  everyone  is  aware  of  the 
predilection  of  Paul  Veronese  for  dogs,  especially  for 
greyhounds ;  he  has  placed  them  in  all  his  pictures,  and 
the  Church  of  Saint  Sebastian  actually  contains  the  only 
canvas  in  which  he  has  not  introduced  one,  which  is 
noticed  as  a  unique  curiosity  in  the  work  of  the  master. 
We  have  not  verified  the  truth  of  this  assertion  for  our- 
selves ;  but  in  thinking  upon  the  subject,  it  seems  to  us 
that  a  painting  of  Paul  Veronese  always  presents  itself 
to  the  memory  accompanied  by  a  white  hound,  in  the 
same  manner  that  a  canvas  of  Garofalo  seems  to  be 
flowered  and  signed  with  his  inevitable  carnation.  Some 
amateur,  with  sufficient  leisure,  ought  to  investigate  the 
truth  of  this  characteristic  detail. 

The  purest  of  these  picturesque  diamonds  is  the 
"  Martyrdom  of  Saint  Mark  "  and  "  Saint  Marcellinus 
Encouraged  b}^  Saint  Sebastian."  Art  can  scarcely  go 
further,  and  this  picture  ought  to  take  its  place  among 
the  seven  wonders  of  the  human  race. 

What  color  and  what  designing  in  this  group  of  a 
woman  and  a  child,  that  the  eye  encounters  on  first 
[     275     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

examining  the  canvas!  What  ineffable 'unction,  what 
celestial  resignation  diffused  upon  the  visages  of  the  two 
saints  already  luminous  with  the  future  aureole,  and  how 
charming  is  this  woman's  head  which  appears  in  a  three- 
quarter  view  above  the  shoulders  of  Saint  Sebastian, 
young,  blonde,  animated  by  emotion,  the  eye  full  of  sad- 
ness and  solicitude !  This  head,  which  is  all  that  is 
visible  of  the  person,  has  a  movement  so  correct,  an  out- 
hne  so  perfect  that  the  rest  of  the  body  is  conjectured 
without  difficulty  behind  the  interposed  group  which 
hides  it ;  one  can  follow  the  invisible  lines  to  the  end,  so 
exact  is  the  anatomy. 

Saint  Sebastian  is,  it  is  said,  the  portrait  of  Paul 
Veronese,  and  the  young  woman  that  of  his  wife.  They 
were  both  of  them  then  in  the  flower  of  their  age,  and 
she  had  not  yet  acquired  that  full  and  heavy  matronly 
beauty  which  characterizes  her  in  the  portraits  which 
remain  of  her,  among  others,  in  the  galleiy  of  the  Pitti 
Palace  in  Florence.  Draperies,  details,  accessories, 
everything,  is  finished  with  that  extreme  care  and  con- 
scientiousness of  first  works,  when  the  artist  labors 
only  to  satisfy  his  genius  and  his  heart.  It  is  almost 
at  the  base  of  this  canvas  that  the  painter  is  interred. 
No  more  brilliant  lamp  illumines  the  shadow  of  a  tomb, 
and  the  chef  cVceuvre  shines  radiantly  above  the  coflBn 
like  the  flamboyance  of  an  apotheosis. 

The  "  Crowning  of  Mary  in  Heaven  "  takes  place  in 
the  midst  of  irradiations  and  scintillations  of  such  a  light 
as  has  never  existed  save  upon  the  palettes  of  Paul 
Veronese.  In  that  atmosphere  of  gold  and  silver  in 
fusion  which  traverses  the  hair  of  Christ,  there  swims 
aerially  a  Mary  of  a  beauty  so  celestially  human  as  to 
make  your  heart  beat  while  you  bow  your  head. 

"  The  Crowning  of  Esther  by  Ahasuerus  "  is  of  an 
unequalled  grandeur  and  opulence  of  tone.  Here  Paul 
Veronese  has  displayed  at  his  ease  his  gorgeous  style ; 
[     276     ] 


JOUKNEYS     IN     ITALY 

the  pearls,  the  satins,  the  velvets,  the  brocades  of  gold 
scintillate,  shimmer,  and  sparkle  in  luminous  breaks. 
What  a  virile  and  spirited  carriage  the  warrior  in  the 
foreground  has,  imder  the  careless  anachronism  of  his 


armour 


The  sacristy  also  contains  some  of  Veronese's  paint- 
ings, but  they  belong  to  the  time  of  his  early  youth. 
In  order  to  explain  the  prodigious  abundance  of  his  pro- 
ductions in  this  church,  there  is  a  legend  of  many  ver- 
sions :  first,  a  special  devotion  on  the  part  of  the  artist 
for  Saint  Sebastian ;  again,  and  this  is  more  romantic, 
the  murder  of  a  rival  had  obliged  him  to  seek  a  refuge 
in  this  place  of  asylum,  which,  out  of  gratitude,  he  em- 
bellished during  his  leisure.  According  to  others,  it  was 
to  escape  the  vengeance  of  a  Senator,  a  caricature  of 
whom  he  had  exposed  on  the  Place  Saint  Mark,  that 
the  painter  kept  himself  hidden  for  two  years  in  Saint 
Sebastian's.  We  give  these  stories  of  the  sacristan  for 
what  they  are  worth,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  criti- 
cize them. 

Before  going  forth  from  this  radiant  church,  all  the 
riches  of  which  we  are  far  from  having  indicated,  if  you 
lower  your  eyes,  dazzled  by  the  phosphorescence  of  the 
ceiling,  to  the  grayish  pavement,  you  will  discover  at 
your  feet  an  humble  stone  which  covers  the  vault  of  a 
dynasty  of  gondoliers.  The  first  name  inscribed  is  that 
of  Zorzi  de  Cataro,  of  the  Quay  of  Barnaba,  imder  date 
of  1505.  The  last  bears  the  numerals  of  1785.  The 
Republic  did  not  long  survive  the  Zorzi. 

The  Church  of  Santa  Maria  dei  Frari  is  not  of  the 
atrocious  classical  or  Jesuit  type  of  which  we  spoke  a 
moment  ago;  its  ogives,  its  lancet  windows,  its  Roman- 
esque tower,  its  great  walls  of  red  brick,  give  it  a  more 
religious  aspect.  It  has  above  the  doorway  a  statue  of 
Victory  representing  the  Saviour.  This  church,  con- 
structed by  Nicolas  Pisano,  dates  from  1250. 
[     277     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

It  is  here  that  the  tomb  of  Canova  is  to  be  found ; 
this  monument,  which  the  artist  had  designed  for  Titian, , 
modified  in  some  particulars,  served  for  himself.  We  do 
not  admire  it ;  it  is  pretentious,  theatrical,  and  cold. 
At  the  base  of  a  pyramid  of  green  marble  fastened  to 
the  wall  of  a  chapel,  yawns  the  black  door  of  a  vault, 
toward  which  a  procession  of  statues  elevated  upon  the 
steps  of  the  monument  takes  its  way ;  at  the  head 
marches  a  funereal  figure  carrying  a  sepulchral  urn  ;  be- 
hind come  genii  and  allegories  holding  torches  and  gar- 
lands of  flowers. 

In  order  to  counterbalance  this  part  of  the  composition, 
a  great  nude  figure  which  doubtless  symbolizes  the  uncer- 
tainty of  life,  leans  upon  a  torch  which  she  extinguishes, 
and  the  winged  Hon  of  Saint  Mark  sorrowfully  lowers  his 
muzzle  upon  his  paws,  in  a  pose  analogous  to  that  of  the 
famous  lion  of  Thorwaldsen.  Above  the  doorway  two 
genii  sustain  the  medallion  of  Canova. 

This  tomb  seems  all  the  more  poor  and  paltry  in  idea 
and  execution,  because  the  Church  of  the  Frari  is  full  of 
ancient  monuments  of  the  most  beautiful  style  and  most 
pleasing  effect.  There  repose  Alvise  Pascahgo,  Marzo 
Zeno,  Jacopo  Barbaro,  Jacopo  Marcello,  Benedetto 
Pesaro,  in  sarcophagi  adorned  by  statues  of  marvelous 
modelling  and  spiritedness. 

A  tryptich  by  Vivarini  wliich  dates  back  to  1482,  is 
to  be  admired,  and  a  Virgin  draped  in  a  white  veil  by 
Titian  has  a  charming  effect. 

The  equestrian  statue  of  General  Colleoni,  who  has  a 
grand  carriage  upon  his  mount  of  bronze,  first  arrests 
the  eye  when  one  arrives  by  the  canal  at  the  little  Place 
at  the  end  of  which  the  Church  of  Saint  John  and  Saint 
Paul  rises.  Although  its  construction  dates  back  to  the 
thirteenth  or  fourteenth  century,  it  was  not  consecrated 
until  1430.  The  tympanum  of  the  facade  is  pretty  and 
the    circular    arcade    which    overhangs    it   wonderfully 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

sculptured  with  flowers  and  fruits.  One  goes  to  Saint 
John  and  Saint  Paul  principally  in  order  to  see  the 
"  Death  of  Saint  Peter  "  by  Titian  ;  a  picture  so  precious 
that  it  is  forbidden  to  sell  it  under  penalty  of  death. 
We  like  this  artistic  ferocity,  and  it  is  the  only  case  for 
which  it  appears  to  us  that  capital  punishment  should 
be  reserved.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  all  its  beauty, 
other  pictures  of  Titian  seem  to  us  as  worthy  as  this 
one  of  a  like  jealousy  on  the  part  of  Venice.  I'lie  scene 
takes  place  in  a  wood ;  Saint  Peter  is  tiu-ned  head  down- 
ward, the  executioner  holds  him  by  the  arm  and  already 
raises  his  sword ;  an  affrighted  priest  is  fleeing  away,  and 
in  the  sky  two  angels  appear,  ready  to  receive  the  soul  of 
the  martyr.  The  executioner  is  perfectly  placed.  An 
expression  of  bestial  fury  contracts  his  features.  His 
eyes  glare  under  his  low  forehead  like  those  of  a  tiger. 
His  nostrils  dilate  and  scent  blood.  But  there  is  per- 
haps too  much  fright  and  too  little  resignation  in  the 
head  of  the  Saint.  He  sees  only  the  blade  whose  cold 
steel  is  about  to  pass  between  his  vertebrte,  and  he  for- 
gets that  on  high,  in  the  azure,  hover  the  celestial  mes- 
sengers with  jDalms  and  crowns.  It  is  too  much  like  a 
vulgar  convict  whose  head  is  about  to  be  cut  off  and 
whom  the  fact  afflicts.  The  monk  himself  is  so  frightened, 
so  stiffened  by  terror^  that  he  with  difficulty  saves  himself. 

Whatever  opportunity  the  composition  may  afford  to 
the  critic,  still  one  can  only  admire  on  his  knees  the 
magnificent  landscape,  so  grand,  so  full  of  style ;  the 
simple  coloring,  virile  and  robust,  the  broad  and  gran- 
diose execution,  the  unequalled  sovereignty  of  touch 
which  reveals  the  god  of  painting.  Titian,  as  we  have 
already  stated,  is  the  only  type  of  artist  which  the  mod- 
ern world  can  oppose  to  the  ancient  for  calm  force, 
tranquil  splendor  and  eternal  serenity. 

We  might  still  speak  concerning  the  funereal  monu- 
ments which  cover  the  walls,  of  the  altar  of  Saint  Dom- 
[     279     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

inic,  where  the  story  of  this  saint  is  modelled  in  a 
succession  of  bas-reliefs  in  bronze  by  Joseph  ISIazza  of 
Bologna ;  of  the  Christ  on  the  Cross,  by  Tintoretto ; 
of  some  magnificent  sculptures  in  the  chapel  of  Sainte- 
Marie  des  Roses,  and  of  the  Crowning  of  the  Virgin,  by 
Palma  the  elder ;  but,  in  a  church  where  there  is  a 
Titian,  one  sees  only  Titian.  That  sun  extinguishes  all 
the  stars. 


[     280     3 


CHAPTER    XXIV 
CHURCHES,  SCHOOLS,    AND    PALACES 


SAINT  FRAN9OIS  DES  VIGNES,  with  its  white 
and  red  bell-turrets,  also  deserves  to  be  visited. 
Near  the  church  there  is  an  odd  cloister,  closed  by 
bars  of  black  wood,  which  surrounds  a  species  of  prison- 
yard  encumbered  by  wild  mallows,  nettles,  hemlocks,  as- 
phodels, burdocks,  and  other  plants  peculiar  to  ruins  and 
to  cemeteries,  in  the  midst  of  which  rises  a  grotto  of 
rock-work,  made  of  coral,  much  like  those  little  pieces  of 
shell-rock  that  are  sold  at  Havre  and  Dieppe.  This 
grotto  shelters  an  effigy  of  Saint  Francois  in  wood  or 
colored  plaster,  a  plaything  of  devotion,  a  Jesuitical 
piece  of  nonsense.  Under  the  damp  and  greenish  ar- 
cades of  the  cloister  in  the  midst  of  tombs  worn  away  by 
friction,  bearing  inscriptions  already  illegible,  we  noticed 
upon  a  block  of  stone  a  gondola  sculptu.red  in  relief, 
somewhat  corroded  but  still  entirely  visible.  It  covered 
a  vault  of  gondoliers,  like  the  tomb  of  the  Zorzi  de  Ca- 
taro  in  the  Church  of  Saint  Sebastian ;  each  quay  had 
its  own  place  of  sepulture. 

At  Saint  Francois  des  Vignes  we  saw  a  picture  by 
Negroponte  of  remarkable  beauty  and  remarkably  well 
preserved.  It  is  the  only  one  we  have  encountered  by 
this  painter,  whose  name  we  had  never  heard  uttered, 
who,  however,  deserves  to  be  better  known. 

We  propose  to  give  a  somewhat  detailed  description 
of  it:  —  The  Virgin  seated  upon  a  throne,  clothed  in 
a  robe  of  gold  brocade  and  a  mantle  with  exqviisite  em- 
broidery, the  hem  of  which  is  upheld  by  a  little  girl 
with  an  air  of  ingenuous  devotion,  gazes  lovingly  upon 
the   infant   Jesus   lying  across  her  knees.     The  head 

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JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

of  this  Virgin,  of  an  exquisite  delicacy,  would  confer 
honor  upon  Jean  Bellin,  Carpaccio,  Perugini,  Albert 
Diirer,  or  the  purest  Gothic  masters.  It  is  blonde,  and 
her  golden  locks,  treated  separately,  are  confused  with 
the  splendor  of  her  three-lobed  nimbus,  incrusted  with 
precious  stones  in  the  Byzantine  fashion ;  above,  from 
the  ultramarine  background  of  a  naive  Paradise,  the 
Eternal  Father  looks  upon  the  sacred  group  in  a  majes- 
tic and  satisfied  pose  ;  two  beautiful  angels  hold  garlands 
of  flowers,  and  behind  the  throne,  which  is  covered  with 
goldsmiths'  work  of  gems  like  that  of  an  empress  of  the 
bas-empire,  blooms  an  efflorescence  of  roses  and  lilies 
arranged  in  a  panel  and  which  recall  the  appellations  of 
the  litany. 

All  is  treated  with  that  religious  minutia,  that  infinite 
patience  which  seems  to  take  no  account  of  time  and 
which  implies  the  long  leisure  hours  of  the  cloister.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  Negroponte  was  a  monk,  as  says  the  in- 
scription traced  upon  the  picture  :  "  Pater  Antonius  Ne- 
grojjonte  pinxit.^'  But  this  extreme  care  detracts  in  no 
way  from  the  grandeur  of  the  aspect ;  the  imposing 
effect,  and  the  richness  of  coloring  struggle  victoriously 
against  the  glitter  of  the  gold  and  honeycombed  orna- 
mentation. It  is  at  once  an  image  and  a  jewel,  as  in  our 
opinion  pictures  exposed  for  the  adoration  of  the  faith- 
ful ought  to  be.  Art,  under  these  circumstances,  gains 
by  being  arrayed  in  the  hieratic  and  mysterious  luxury 
of  the  idol.  The  Madonna  of  Father  Antoine  de  Negro- 
ponte at  Saint  Francois  des  Vignes  fulfils  admirably 
these  conditions  and  sustains  with  honor  the  vicinage  of 
the  resurrected  Christ  by  Paul  Veronese ;  the  Martyr- 
dom of  Saint  Lawrence  of  Santa  Croce,  and  the  Madonna 
of  Jean  Bellin — one  of  his  best  works,  unfortunately 
placed  in  an  obscure  chapel. 

A  visit  to  Saint  Pantaleon  must  not  be  omitted,  if 
only  on  account  of  the  immense  ceiling  by  Fumiani, 

[     282     ] 


r  Ki  ^y  t  T  -  iirrrnliiiiiijiimiKBii; 


VENICE 

Church  of  the  "-Salute"  (Baldassare  Longhena) 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

representing  different  episodes  in  the  life  of  the  Saint, 
his  martyrdom  and  his  apotheosis. 

Since  the  monastic  stiffness  and  the  naivete  of  missal 
illumination  of  Father  Antoine  de  Negroponte,  many 
years  have  passed,  and  art  has  made  great  progress. 
Nevertheless,  how  does  it  happen  that  this  ceiling, 
which  equals  in  bold  facility  the  "Salon  of  Hercules'"  of 
Lemoine,  and  the  frescoes  of  the  Escurial,  by  Luca  Gi- 
ordano, leaves  you  cold  in  spite  of  its  art  of  foreshorten- 
ing, its  deception  of  the  eye,  all  its  tricks  of  execution  ? 
It  is  because,  in  it  method  is  everything,  the  hand  takes 
precedence  of  the  head,  and  because  there  is  no  soul  in 
that  immense  composition  hung  above  your  head  like  a 
glory  of  the  Opera,  by  visible  cords.  The  most  barren, 
the  most  constrained,  the  most  unskilful  Gothic  has  a 
charm  which  is  lacking  in  all  these  great  mannerists,  so 
learned,  so  skilful,  so  nimble,  and  whose  execution  was 
so  expeditious. 

In  the  Church  of  Sta.  Maria  della  Salute,  made  famous 
by  the  magnificent  exterior  view  which  Canaletto  has 
painted  of  it,  and  which  everyone  has  seen  in  the  gallery 
of  the  Louvre,  a  superb  ceiling  by  Titian  is  to  be  admired, 
—  the  killing  of  Abel  by  Cain,  —  executed  with  a  mas- 
terly robustness  and  vigor.  It  is  calm  and  striking  hke 
all  the  successful  works  of  that  unrivalled  painter.  The 
architecture  is  that  of  Balthasar  Longhena ;  the  white 
cupolas  are  rounded  out  against  the  sky  in  very  graceful 
curves ;  one  himdred  and  thirty  statues,  with  flying 
draperies,  in  beautifully  studied  poses,  fill  the  cornice; 
a  very  pretty  Eve,  in  the  costume  of  the  period,  under 
a  rosy  sunbeam  which  tinged  her  marble  with  blushing 
red,  smiled  upon  us  every  morning  from  this  cornice, 
when  we  were  stopping  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe.  Re- 
ligion is  not  stern  in  Italy,  and  freely  accepts  the 
nudity  sanctified  by  art.  We  have  already  recounted, 
if  our  memory  does  not  deceive  us,  the  surprise  we  ex- 
[     283     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

perienced  upon  encountering  a  similar  Eve,  still  less 
clothed,  if  possible,  upon  the  platform  of  the  dome  of 
Saint  Mark. 

We  might  continue  indefinitely  this  pilgrimage  from 
church  to  church,  since  all  contam  treasures  which 
would  detain  us  by  innumerable  descriptions ;  but  we 
are  not  pretending  to  write  a  guide ;  we  only  wish  to 
paint,  in  a  few  familiar  chapters,  Venetian  hfe  by  a 
traveler  without  preconceived  prejudices,  cm-ious  about 
everything,  very  much  of  a  saunterer,  capable  of  aban- 
doning an  old  monument  for  a  young  woman  who  happens 
to  pass  by,  taking  chance  for  a  cicerone,  and  speaking 
only  of  that  which  he  has  seen.  These  are  sketches 
made  from  nature,  daguerreotypes,  little  bits  of  mosaic 
gathered  from  various  places,  that  we  put  side  by  side 
without  taking  too  much  pains  to  secure  a  regularity 
which  it  is  perhaps  impossible  to  obtain  in  a  matter  so 
diffuse  as  the  vagabondage  on  foot  or  in  a  gondola,  of  a 
feuilletonist  spending  his  vacation  in  a  city  unknown  to 
him,  and  in  which  so  many  objects  attract  one's  curiosity 
upon  all  sides. 

Moreover,  without  seeking  a  laborious  transition,  we 
are  going  to  lead  you  straight  to  the  Scuola  de  San 
Rocco^  an  elegant  edifice  with  a  facade  consisting  of  two 
rows  of  superimposed  Corinthian  columns  which  are 
entwined  at  one-third  of  their  height  with  the  prettiest 
effect. 

Saint  Roch,  as  is  well  known,  enjoys  the  privilege  of 
curing  the  plague ;  he  is  therefore  greatly  venerated  in 
Venice  on  that  account,  the  city  being  specially  exposed 
to  contagion  through  its  connections  with  Constantino- 
ple and  the  Levantine  ports.  His  statue  shows  on  his  un- 
covered leg  a  frightful  blackened  ulcer,  for  the  saints 
are  homceopaths  and  only  cure  maladies  with  which  they 
themselves  are  afflicted.  The  plague  is  treated  by  a 
saint  afflicted  with  the  plague,  opthalmia  by  a  martyr 

[     284     ] 


JOUKNEYS      IN      ITALY 

who  has  had  his  eyes  put  out,  and  so  on.  It  is  a  matter 
of  similia  similihus,  etc.  Medicine  apart,  it  is  doubtless 
fancied  that  these  blessed  personages  have  a  more  tender 
compassion  for  those  who  suffer  the  same  ills  which  they 
themselves  suffered. 

At  the  school  of  Saint  Roch  one  finds  a  low  hall 
painted  entirely  by  Tintoretto,  that  famous  hand  for 
work,  and,  upon  ascending  a  magnificent  monumental 
staircase  by  Scarpagnino,  one  sees,  on  his  right  and  on 
his  left,  as  if  to  justify  the  name  and  patronage  of  the 
plague-stricken  saint,  various  episodes  of  the  great  Vene- 
tian epidemic,  which  might  serve  as  illustrations  of  the 
Parisian  cholera.  These  cadaverous  paintings  are,  the 
one  on  the  right  by  Antonio  Zanchi,  that  on  the  left  by 
Pietro  Negri. 

In  the  first  of  these  pictures  the  arrival  of  the  plague 
at  Venice  is  depicted.  The  scourge,  personified  under 
the  figure  of  a  skeleton,  traverses  the  thick  and  imwhole- 
some  atmosphere,  borne  by  a  woman  with  withered 
breasts,  emaciated,  fleshless,  and  green  as  from  putrefac- 
tion, who  flies  with  outspread  wings,  m  the  pose  of  the 
Death  of  Orcagiia.  In  the  foreground,  a  woman  almost 
in  her  clutches,  is  fleeing ;  she  is  blonde  and  plump,  like 
all  of  the  Venetian  race,  and  it  would  be  a  real  pity  if 
the  hideous  spectre  should  catch  her,  since  she  is  charm- 
ing in  her  fright  and  designed  perfectly. 

On  the  other  side,  a  gondolier  of  gigantic  proportions 
and  an  exaggerated  muscularity,  unmoors  with  a  superb 
movement  a  boat  destined  for  the  transport  of  the  ca- 
davers. 

A  dead  woman,  in  dark  shades  and  livid  flesh,  but 
whose  brawny  arms  and  powerful  throat  show  that  she 
has  been  stricken  by  the  scourge  in  plenitude  of  life,  is 
presented  head  first,  foreshortened  in  a  violent  and  dra- 
matic manner  ;  near  her  a  man  (a  naively  horrible  detail) 
holds  his  nose,  not  being  able  to  endure  the  stench  of 
[     285     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

that  beautiful  body,  scarcely  cold  and  yet  abeady  de- 
composing. 

This  lugubrious  poem  is  terminated  by  the  end  of  the 
plague.  The  air  has  again  become  serene.  A  woman 
in  the  foreground  has  very  beautiful  shoulders,  a  viva- 
cious whiteness  of  complexion  instead  of  those  bluish  tints 
of  that  livid  flesh  which  calls  for  chlorine  and  quicklime. 
The  public  health  is  restored.  One  can  breathe  without 
fear  of  swallowing  poison,  press  a  friendly  hand  without 
carrying  a  germ  of  death.  The  Republic,  by  the  power- 
ful intercession  of  Saint  Rocli,  has  secured  from  heaven 
a  cessation  of  the  scourge.  All  this  upper  group  is  ador- 
ably graceful.  The  saint,  bowing  at  the  feet  of  Jesus 
Christ  and  of  the  Virgin,  implores  with  an  ineffable  ardor, 
and  it  is  understood  that  celestial  bounty  cannot  refuse 
anything  to  so  fervent  a  prayer.  The  Republic,  symbo- 
Hzed  by  a  beautiful  woman,  in  the  style  of  Paul  Veronese, 
has  a  very  noble  pose ;  it  is  regrettable  that  her  hands 
do  not  correspond  witb  the  beauty  of  her  head. 

It  is  at  the  School  of  Saint  Rocli  that  the  masterpiece 
of  Tintoretto  is  to  be  found,  that  artist  so  fecund  and 
so  uneven,  who  goes  from  tbe  sublime  to  the  detestable 
with  a  wonderful  facility.  This  immense  picture  repre- 
sents on  a  grand  scale  all  the  bloody  drama  of  Calvary. 
The  sky,  doubtless  painted  with  the  blue  ash  from 
Egypt  which  played  such  unpleasant  tricks  upon  the 
artists  of  that  period,  has  false  and  ambiguous  tones,  dis- 
agreeable to  the  eye,  which  were  not  present  before  the 
carbonization  of  that  deceitful  color,  which  has  so  oddly 
blackened  the  background  of  the  "  Pilgrims  of  Emmaus  " 
of  Paul  Veronese;  but  this  imperfection  is  quickly  for- 
gotten as  the  groups  of  the  foreground  victoriously  take 
possession  of  the  spectator  after  a  few  minutes  of  con- 
templation. The  holy  women  form  around  the  cross  a 
trio  in  the  deepest  despair  that  human  grief  can  dream 
of ;  one  of  them,  entirely  covered  by  her  cloak,  lies  up- 

[     286     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

on  the  ground  and  sobs  in  a  most  affecting  abandonment 
to  prostration. 

A  negro,  in  order  to  set  up  the  cross  of  one  of  the 
thieves,  stands  on  tiptoe  with  a  contorted  movement 
which  lacks  naturahiess ;  but  he  is  painted  like  all  the 
rest  of  the  picture  with  a  brush  so  vehement  and  furious 
that  one  cannot  help  admiring  him.  Never  did  Rubens, 
nor  Rembrandt,  nor  Gesicault,  nor  Delacroix,  in  their 
most  feverish  and  most  turbulent  sketches,  attain  such 
transport,  such  rage,  such  ferocity.  This  time  Tintoretto 
has  fully  justified  his  name  of  "  Robusti" ;  vigor  could  not 
go  farther  ;  it  is  violent,  exaggerated,  melodramatic,  but 
clothed  with  a  supreme  quality  —  strength. 

This  canvas,  radiant  with  a  sovereign  art,  ought  to  ob- 
tain pardon  for  the  artist  for  those  acres  of  blackened 
and  smoky  crusts  which  are  encountered  at  every  step 
in  the  palaces,  churches,  and  galleries  and  which  seem 
the  work  of  a  dyer  rather  than  a  painter.  The  Calvary 
bears  the  date  of  1565. 

Before  leaving  the  Scuola  de  San  Bocco  a  very  beau- 
tiful Christ  with  a  profomidly  sorrowful  expression,  by 
Titian,  must  be  noticed,  and  some  charming  altar  doors, 
executed  in  1765  by  Philiberti,  with  exquisite  delicacy 
and  an  astonishing  perfection  of  detail.  These  sculp- 
tures, valuable  in  spite  of  their  modern  date,  represent 
different  episodes  in  the  life  of  Saint  Roch,  the  patron  of 
the  place.  The  cabinet-work  of  the  upper  hall  is  also 
very  remarkable.  But  if  we  were  to  stop  to  admire 
everything,  we  would  never  be  done. 

In  following  our  vagabond  method  let  us  regain  the 
Grand  Canal  and  give  a  few  details  concerning  the 
Vendramin  Calergi  palace,  now  occupied  by  the  Duchess 
de  Beriy.  It  is  of  a  rich  and  noble  architecture,  prob- 
ably by  Pierre  Lombard ;  above  the  windows  little  genii 
support  shields  ornamented  with  exquisite  taste,  and  give 
much  elegance  to  that  fa9ade ;  a  garden  of  moderate  ex- 
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JOUKNEYS     IN     ITALY 

tent  containing  a  few  trees  lies  at  the  side  of  the  palace, 
which  would  in  no  way  be  distinguished  from  others 
were  it  not  for  the  great  white  and  blue  mooring-posts 
which  denote  by  the  fleur-de-hs  with  which  they  are 
decorated  the  princelj-  and  quasi-royal  abode. 

When  permission  to  visit  the  palace  has  been  obtained, 
servants  in  green  livery  receive  you  very  politely  at  the 
foot  of  the  stair  case,  whose  lower  steps  the  water  bathes, 
attach  your  gondola  to  the  posts,  and  introduce  you  into 
a  vestibule  where  50U  wait  while  the  formalities  of  admis- 
sion are  being  fulfilled. 

This  vestibule  is  as  long  as  the  palace ;  it  comes  out 
upon  a  sort  of  courtyard  like  those  of  our  hotels.  It  is 
needful  to  remember  that  one  is  in  Venice,  in  order  not 
to  expect  to  see  an  unharnessed  carriage  there  or  saddle- 
horses  returning  from  the  Bois. 

Two  gondolas  laid  up  and  a  few  pots  of  earth  filled 
with  little  fir  trees,  and  other  poor  plants  dying  of  thirst, 
are  all  that  adorn  the  nakedness  of  this  vast  waiting- 
chamber,  which  is  to  be  found  in  all  Venetian  palaces  — 
an  ante-chamber  which  is  at  the  same  time  a  landing- 
place. 

In  the  middle  of  this  vestibule,  on  the  left,  a  great 
staircase  between  two  walls  presents  itself  on  which  hang 
two  cables  of  red  silk,  and  where  the  same  decoration  of 
unhappy  plants  rules.  A  narrow  carpet  covers  the  steps 
and  leads  to  an  immense  hall,  like  the  vestibule,  without 
furniture  and  without  ornamentation.  From  there  one 
enters  the  dining-room,  the  walls  of  which  are  covered 
with  family  portraits. 

This  room  is  in  the  form  of  a  long  square.  It  is  verj'' 
well  lighted  by  two  large  balcony  windows.  An  oval 
table  occupies  the  middle  and  a  screen  hides  the  door- 
way. On  the  right  liand  wall  the  portrait  of  the  Duchess 
of  Burgundy  is  to  be  seen  in  a  gown  of  blue  velvet: 
those  of  the  Count  of  Artois  and  of  Madame  the  Princess 

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JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

de  Lamballe  and  some  others  are  on  the  left-hand  wall ; 
opposite  is  a  portrait  of  Louis  XV  on  foot ;  and  on  each 
side  of  him  his  two  daughters,  Mesdames  of  France. 

From  this  dining-room  a  hidden  door  opens  into  an 
obscure  chapel,  so  small  that  it  would  with  difficulty  con- 
tain six  persons.  Four  j^'^^'^c-Dieu  may  be  counted  in  it. 
On  the  right,  a  large  door  gives  access  into  an  altogether 
modern  salon,  encumbered  by  paintings  and  a  multitude 
of  small  pieces  of  furniture,  such  as  English  tables,  Paris- 
ian chests,  etc.  —  nothing  of  that  charming  useless 
luxury  which  recalls  our  native  land  by  its  beloved 
trivialities.  Two  portraits  of  her  royal  highness  are 
placed  on  view :  one  by  Lawrence,  in  a  robe  of  white 
satin,  with  a  rose  at  the  side,  displays  the  most  ravish- 
ing Uttle  foot  that  could  possibly  be  admired  in  a  satin 
slipper.  The  entire  back  wall  of  this  room  is  covered 
with  those  paintings  which  every  one  has  seen  at  the 
expositions  of  the  period,  and  which  represent,  for  the 
most  part,  the  heroes  of  La  Vendee. 

In  retraversing  the  dining-room  one  enters  by  a  door 
on  the  left  into  a  salon  which  seems  small  in  compari- 
son with  the  preceding  ones  and  which  is  perhaps  over- 
whelmed by  the  sumptuous  furniture  which  it  contains. 
Thirty  of  the  choicest  pictures  are  hung  here ;  it  is  a 
sort  of  reception  room  or  square  salon,  in  which  probably 
not  a  single  one  of  the  great  names  of  painting  is  want- 
ing. In  the  midst  of  these  masterpieces  shines  a  Virgin 
by  Andrea  del  Sarto,  of  a  beauty  calculated  to  give  chills 
to  the  most  commonplace  beholder,  or  to  the  Philistine 
encased  in  the  hardest  armor  of  prOsaicism. 

This  salon,  lighted  by  a  soft  daylight,  seemed  to  us 
the  favorite  room,  the  very  heart  of  the  building,  and  we 
quitted  it  with  regret  to  visit  the  famous  room  in  which 
are  those  two  columns  of  porphyry,  the  value  of  which 
is  so  great  as  to  surpass  that  of  the  entire  palace.  They 
are  placed  in  front  of  a  door,  are  no  more  effective  than 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

the  lapis  lazuli  of  the  Salon  Serra  at  Genoa,  which  might 
easily  be  believed  to  have  been  painted  and  varnished, 
and  which  resemble  a  metallic  blue  watered  silk.  They 
seemed  imitations,  although  of  the  most  incontestable 
genuineness. 

There  is  one  more  salon  which  is  not  at  all  remark- 
able. In  the  four  corners,  four  pedestals  support  four 
busts :  those  of  the  Duke  of  Berry,  of  Charles  X,  and 
other  personages  of  the  royal  family.  From  this  room 
communication  is  effected  with  the  apartments  of  the 
Count  Lucchesi-Palli,  and  the  inspection  is  completed. 

It  would  be  dropping  into  commonplace  philosophy  to 
transcribe  here  the  thoughts  aroused  by  this  visit  to  the 
Palace  Vendramin-Calergi,  the  modest  asylum  of  one 
who  has  been  so  very  unfortunate.  But  this  is  not  the 
first  time  Venice  has  had  the  privilege  of  sheltering  de- 
throned ro^^alties.  Candide  supped  at  an  inn  there  in 
company  with  four  monarchs  out  of  work  who  had  not 
the  wherewithal  to  pay  their  scot. 

From  the  Palace  of  the  Duchess  of  Berry  we  went  to 
the  Palace  Barbarigo,  to  see  some  celebrated  Titians 
which  are  to  be  found  there.  Unfortunately  the  Russian 
consul  had  bought  them  for  his  master  the  Czar,  and 
the  precious  collection  was  all  under  seal.  We  were 
obliged  to  content  ourselves  with  some  paintings  of  little 
value,  and  some  gilded  ceilings,  in  apartments  which  are 
very  beautiful  but  in  a  sad  state  of  dilapidation. 

We  were  also  shown  a  cradle  overloaded  with  an  ex- 
travagance of  ornamentation,  like  the  cradle  of  a  long 
expected  king's  son  ;  it  was  in  this  golden  cradle  that 
the  eldest  of  the  Barbarigo  family  slept.  Now  the  cradle 
is  empty ;  the  Titians  are  departing  for  Russia ;  the  rain 
filters  through  the  gilding  of  the  cracked  ceilings,  and 
the  facade,  groAvn  musty  through  dampness  and  neglect, 
is  about  to  fall  into  the  green  water  of  the  canal. 

We   went  forth   from  this  palace  with  a  sad  heart. 

[     21)0     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

There  could  be  no  more  sorrowful  sight  than  that  of  the 
cradle  of  an  extmct  family  in  a  crumbling  palace. 

We  also  saluted,  in  going  to  the  post-office  to  seek  our 
letters  from  France,  the  humble  abode  of  another  fallen 
grandee,  that  of  Manin,  that  hero  equal  to  the  greatest 
of  antiquity.  On  the  modest  balcony  of  his  apartments, 
at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Paternian,  some  neglected  pots 
of  hyacinths  were  fading,  and  the  dull  windows  had  that 
melancholy  aspect  which  houses  assume  whose  soul  has 
gone  forth  into  exile,  or  to  death,  that  eternal  exile. 


[     291     ] 


CHAPTER    XXV 
THE    GHETTO  — MURANO  —  VICENZA 


ONE  day  we  wandered  among  the  most  hidden  re- 
cesses of  Venice,  for  we  love  to  become  acquaint- 
ed witli  a  city  in  other  respects  than  those  of  its 
oflBcial  physiognomy,  outlined,  described,  narrated  by 
every  one,  and  we  were  curious,  having  paid  the  legiti- 
mate tribute  of  admiration,  to  raise  that  monumental 
mask  which  each  city  places  upon  its  visage  for  the  pur- 
pose of  conceahng  its  poverty  and  wretchedness. 

Passing  from  lane  to  lane,  by  dint  of  crossing  many 
bridges  and  often  losing  our  way,  we  penetrated  beyond 
the  Canareggio,  into  a  Venice,  not  at  all  like  the  coquet- 
tish Venice  of  the  water-colors.  Houses  half  crumbled 
into  dust,  windows  covered  with  boards,  deserted  Places, 
empty  spaces  where  clothes  were  drying  on  lines  and 
half-naked  children  were  playing,  arid  beaches  on  which 
caulkers  were  repairing  boats  in  thick  clouds  of  smoke, 
churches  abandoned  and  riddled  by  Austrian  bombs, 
canals  with  dull,  green  water,  on  which  were  floating 
empty  mattresses  and  the  detritus  of  vegetables,  forming 
an  aggregation  of  poverty,  of  solitude,  and  neglect  which 
conveyed  a  painful  impression.  Cities  conquered  from 
the  sea,  like  Venice,  have  need  of  riches  and  splendor ; 
all  the  luxury  of  art,  all  the  magnificence  of  architecture 
are  necessary  to  compensate  for  the  absence  of  nature. 
If  a  Palace  of  the  Scamozzi  or  the  Sammichelli  has  a 
beautiful  appearance  on  the  border  of  the  Grand  Canal, 
with  its  balconies,  its  columns,  and  its  marble  staircases, 
nothing,  on  the  other  hand,  is  more  sad  than  a  ruin  fall- 
ing down  between  sky  and  water,  the  centipedes  rmming 
and  the  crabs  crawling  over  its  musty  feet. 
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JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

We  walked  afterward  several  times  through  a  dedalus 
of  lanes  which  often  led  ns  back  to  our  starting  point. 
We  noticed  with  surprise  the  absence  of  all  rehgious 
emblems  at  the  corners  of  the  streets;  there  were  no 
chapels,  no  Madonnas  adorned  with  votive  offerings,  no 
sculptured  crosses  on  the  Places,  no  effigies  of  saints,  not 
one  of  those  signs  of  devotion  so  frequent  in  the  other 
quarters  of  the  city.  Eveiything  had  a  strange,  sullen, 
and  mysterious  aspect.  Weird  and  furtive  figures  glided 
silently  along  the  walls  with  a  timid  air.  These  figures 
were  not  of  the  Venetian  type.  The  curved  noses,  eyes 
like  coals  in  the  midst  of  a  greenish  pallor,  slender  jaws, 
pointed  chins,  all  betokened  a  different  race.  The  rags 
which  covered  them,  scanty,  pitiable,  glazed  with  dirt, 
had  a  special  sordidness  and  denoted  cuj^idity  rather  than 
povert}^  an  avaricious  misery,  voluntary  rather  than  sub- 
mitted to,  a  thing  to  inspire  disgust  and  not  pity. 

The  lanes  narrowed  more  and  more ;  the  houses  tow- 
ered hke  Babels  of  dog  kennels  placed  one  above  an- 
other in  order  to  seek  a  httle  respirable  air  and  some 
light  above  the  shadow  and  the  mire  in  which  these 
deformed  beings  grovelled. 

Several  of  these  houses  were  nine  stories  high,  nine 
zones  of  rags,  of  ordure,  and  unclean  industries.  All 
the  maladies  and  forgotten  leprosies  of  the  Orient  seemed 
to  be  eating  away  these  mangy  walls;  the  dampness 
speckled  them  with  black  spots  like  those  of  gangrene ; 
the  rough-coating  becoming  exhausted  like  an  eruptive 
skin,  was  dropping  off  in  scurvy  pellicles. 

Not  a  single  line  presei-ved  the  perpendicular ;  every- 
thing was  out  of  plumb ;  one  story  leaned  inward  and 
another  bulged  out ;  the  bleared  windows,  blind  in  one 
eye,  or  squinting,  did  not  possess  a  single  whole  pane. 
Plasters  of  paper  dressed  the  wounds  of  the  glass  ;  hide- 
ously dirty  mattresses  were  trying  to  dry  in  the  sun  on 
the  ledge  of  the  black  and  gaping  casements. 
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JOUENEYS      IN      ITALY 

In  places,  the  remains  of  a  coating  of  brick  and  broken 
plaster  gave  to  a  few  of  the  fagades,  less  decrepit  than 
others,  an  unhealthy  red  color  like  that  which  covers 
the  cheeks  of  a  consumptive  or  of  a  painted  courtesan  of 
the  lowest  class.  These  were  not  the  less  ugly  nor  the 
less  repulsive ;  it  might  be  called  health  upon  death, 
vice  upon  poverty.  Which  is  the  less  horrible,  a  cadaver 
in  all  its  lividness,  or  a  cadaver  whose  face  of  yellow  wax 
has  been  painted  with  vermilion  ? 

Ruined  bridges,  bending  their  arched  backs  like  old 
men  broken  witli  weight  of  years,  and  almost  allowing 
their  spans  to  fall  in  the  water,  bind  together  these 
masses  of  formless  ruins,  separated  by  stagnant  canals 
black  as  ink,  green  as  sanies,  obstructed  with  filth  and 
debris  of  all  sorts,  that  the  current  has  not  the  strength 
to  carry  off,  powerless  as  it  is  to  purify  that  sleeping 
water,  opaque  and  dull,  like  that  of  a  Stygian  marsh  or 
a  pool  of  hell. 

Finally  we  came  out  upon  a  quite  extensive  Campo, 
passably  paved,  in  the  middle  of  which  yawned  the 
mouth  of  a  stone  cistern.  At  one  of  the  corners  rose  an 
edifice  of  a  more  human  architectural  aspect,  the  door  of 
which  was  surmounted  by  an  inscription  sculptured  in 
Oriental  lettering,  which  we  recognized  as  Hebrew  char- 
acters. The  mystery  was  explained.  This  fetid  and 
purulent  quarter,  this  aquatic  Court  of  JNIiracles  was  in- 
deed the  Ghetto,  the  Jewry  of  Venice,  which  has  pre- 
served the  characteristic  sordidness  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Probably  if  one  were  to  penetrate  into  those  cracked 
and  rotten  houses  streaked  with  filthy  ooze,  one  would 
find  there,  even  as  in  the  ancient  Jewrys,  Rebeccas  and 
Rachels  of  an  orientally  radiant  beauty,  rigid  with  gold 
and  precious  stones  as  a  Hindoo  idol,  seated  upon  the 
most  precious  Smyrna  rugs,  in  the  midst  of  dishes  of 
gold  and  of  incalculable  riches  amassed  by  paternal  ava- 
rice ;   for  the  poverty  of  the  Jew  is  only  on  the  outside. 

[     294     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

If  the  Christian  has  a  false  luxury,  the  Israelite  has  a 
false  poverty.  Like  certain  insects,  in  order  to  escape 
his  persecutors,  he  rolls  himself  in  ordure  and  makes 
himself  the  color  of  dirt.  This  habit,  formed  in  the 
Middle  Ages  when  it  was  necessary,  he  has  not  yet  lost, 
although  nothing  justifies  it  at  present,  and  he  continues 
in  it  with  the  indelible  obstinacy  of  his  race. 

This  edifice,  decorated  with  a  Hebrew  inscription,  was 
the  synagogue.  We  entered  it.  A  rather  fine  staircase 
led  us  into  a  great  oblong  hall  of  finely  carved  Avood- 
work,  carpeted  with  splendid  red  damask  from  India. 
The  Talmud,  like  the  Koran,  forbids  to  its  followers  the 
reproduction  of  the  human  features  and  regards  art  as  an 
idolatrous  practice.  The  synagogue  is  perforce  bare  as 
a  mosque  or  a  Protestant  temple,  and  cannot  attain  to 
the  magnificence  of  the  Catholic  cathedrals,  however 
great  may  be  the  riches  of  its  faithful.  This  cult,  al- 
together abstract,  is  poor  to  the  eye  ;  there  is  a  chair  for 
the  Rabbi  who  expounds  the  Bible,  a  platform  for  the 
musicians  who  chant  the  psalms,  a  tabernacle  in  which 
are  enclosed  the  Tables  of  the  Law,  and  that  is  all. 

We  noticed,  in  this  synagogue,  a  great  number  of 
brass  candelabra  with  balls  and  twisted  arms  of  a  Dutch 
style,  such  as  are  often  seen  in  the  pictures  of  Gerard 
Dow  or  of  Mieris,  and  notably  in  the  picture  of  "The 
Paralytic,"  which  the  engraving  has  rendered  popular. 
These  candelabra  probably  came  from  Amsterdam,  that 
northern  Venice,  which  also  contains  many  Jews.  This 
abundance  of  lights  ought  not  to  occasion  surprise,  for 
candlesticks  with  seven  branches,  lamps,  and  tapers  are 
frequently  referred  to  in  the  Bible. 

The  cemetery  of  the  Jews  is  at  the  Lido ;  the  sand 
covers  it;  vegetation  invades  it,  and  the  children  have 
no  scruples  against  dancing  upon  the  overturned  or  fallen 
tombstones.  Once  when  reproached  for  their  irreverence, 
they  replied  altogether  innocently,  "  These  are  Jews." 

[      295      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

A  Jew  and  a  dog  are  similar  objects  in  their  eyes.  These 
graves,  for  them,  cover  carrion,  not  corpses.  This  funereal 
field  is  not  a  cemetery,  it  is  a  common  sewer.  In  Spain, 
at  Puerto  de  Santa  Maria,  we  heard  an  entirely  analo- 
gous remark :  a  negro,  a  servant  of  the  place,  happened  to 
be  slain  by  a  bull  in  a  bull-fight ;  he  was  carried  away  and 
we  were  greatly  disturbed.  "  Calm  yourself,"  we  heard 
a  neighbor  say,  "  it  is  nothing  ;  that  was  a  negro."  Jews 
or  negroes,  they  are  men,  for  all  that!  How  long  will 
it  still  take  for  children  and  barbarians  to  learn  the 
fact? 

Nothing  is  more  sad,  more  afflicting,  and  more  heart- 
rending than  this  sandy  ground  all  embossed  with 
tumulary  stones.  These  inscriptions,  half  effaced,  in 
characters  which  one  is  unable  to  read,  add  still  more  to 
the  air  of  mystery  and  neglect ;  one  cannot  give  the 
dead  who  are  sleeping  underneath  the  satisfaction  of 
hearing  their  names  and  their  epitaphs  spelled  out. 

This  cemetery  reminded  us  of  an  Arab  burial-place  near 
Oran.  It  was  on  a  stony  hillock,  frightfully  arid,  swept 
by  the  winds  from  the  sea,  burned  by  the  sun,  and  across 
which  one  might  pass  without  paying  more  attention  to 
the  fallen  tombstones  than  to  the  stones  in  the  road. 

The  Cliristians  themselves  sleep  more  peacefully  in 
the  little  isle  of  San  Michieli,  on  the  road  to  Murano ; 
they  are  laid  to  rest  under  the  briny  sand  which  ought 
to  be  soft  for  the  bones  of  a  Venetian,  and  the  gondoliers 
in  passing  salute  the  crosses  placed  above  their  graves. 

Murano  has  greatly  declined  and  fallen  away  from  its 
ancient  splendor ;  it  is  no  longer,  as  in  the  old  days,  the 
magician  of  the  false  pearls  and  of  glassware  of  all  kinds. 
Chemistry  has  exposed  its  secrets ;  it  has  no  longer  the 
monopoly  of  those  fine  bevelled  mirrors,  those  great 
glasses  with  feet  of  filigree-work,  those  crystal  balls 
which  seem  like  a  tear  of  the  sea,  congealed  upon  the 
dehcate  vegetation  of  the  ocean.    Bohemia  also  does  fine 

[     296     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

work  of  this  kind,  Choisy  le  Roi  does  better.  Art  at 
Murano  has  remained  stationaiy  in  the  midst  of  imiversal 
progress  elsewhere. 

Murano  contains  a  curiosity  which  we  beheld  with  a 
certain  feeling  of  pride :  a  horse,  an  animal  which  is 
more  chimerical  in  Venice  than  the  unicorn,  the  griffin, 
the  flying  goats,  or  the  nightmare.  Richard  III  in  Ven- 
ice would  cry  in  vain  "  My  kingdom  for  a  horse  !  "  It 
gave  us  great  pleasure  to  see  this  honest  quadruped, 
whose  existence  we  had  almost  forgotten. 

The  encoimter  with  this  animal  gave  us  a  sort  of 
homesickness  for  terra  firma,  and  we  returned  to  Venice 
altogether  a  dreamer.  It  seems  to  us  that  a  long  time 
had  elapsed  since  we  had  seen  plains,  mountains,  culti- 
vated fields,  roads  bordered  with  trees,  streets  traversed 
by  carriages,  and  we  thought  nothing  could  be  more 
pleasant  for  us  than  to  hear  the  cracking  of  whips  of  a 
stage-coach.  But  a  visit  to  the  Gorrer  museum,  where 
among  hundreds  of  other  curiosities  is  preserved  the 
board  on  which  the  marvelous  map  of  Venice  was  carved 
by  Albert  Diirer,  to  the  Palace  Manfrini,  which  contains 
a  rich  collection  of  Venetian  masters,  and  to  various 
dealers  in  bric-a-brac,  ossuaries  in  which  are  deposited 
the  ancient  magnificences  of  the  Republic,  speedily  dissi- 
pated those  continental  and  rural  longings. 

Another  little  incident  retarded  our  willingness  to 
depart.  One  morning  while  we  were  bargaining  in  the 
shop  of  a  goldsmith  of  the  Frezzaria  for  one  of  those  little 
charms  of  gold  strands  fine  as  hairs,  and  which  we  wished 
to  carry  away  as  a  souvenir  of  travel  for  one  of  our  lady 
friends  in  Paris,  we  saw  a  beautiful  young  girl  enter, 
negligently  draped  in  a  large  shawl  striped  with  brilliant 
colors,  and  which  was,  to  speak  truly,  her  only  article 
of  clothing,  for  she  had  underneath  it  onl}^  her  chemisette 
and  a  white  petticoat,  a  circumstance,  however,  not  at 
all  extraordinary  in  Venice.     If  her  toilet  was  scanty, 

[     297     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

her  beautiful  glossy  black  hair,  coiled  with  care,  made 
her  a  charming  coiffure  for  a  ball,  with  nothing  lacking, 
not  even  the  flower  stuck  at  the  corner  of  her  ear.  She 
approached  the  show-case  and  chose  a  silver  ring  which 
she  had  doubtless  coveted  for  some  days. 

The  merchant  put  a  price  upon  it  which  seemed  to 
her  exorbitant,  and  in  fact  it  was  so,  considering  the 
slight  value  of  the  article,  and  which  caused  her  to  fly 
into  the  most  diverting  fit  of  rage  imaginable.  All  rosy 
with  indignation,  she  heaped  invectives  upon  the  mer- 
chant in  that  soft  Venetian  patois  that  we  were  begin- 
ning to  understand,  and  which  could  not  lose  its  charm, 
even  in  a  quarrel.  She  called  the  honest  goldsmith  Jew, 
rascal,  forger,  and  great  dog  of  the  Madonna,  a  gross  in- 
sult in  Italy.  The  merchant  laughed  and  stuck  to  his 
price,  without  being  influenced  by  the  pretty  bombard- 
ment of  invectives  which  he  provoked  in  order  to  amuse 
us,  and  which  we  put  a  stop  to  by  causing  the  ring  to 
be  charged  to  our  account,  on  condition  that  Vicenza, 
which  was  the  girl's  name,  would  allow  us  to  make  a 
sketch  of  her. 

Beautiful  girls  in  Venice,  however  odd  it  may  seem 
in  a  city  so  filled  with  painters,  consent  much  more 
readily  to  be  your  mistress  than  to  be  your  model ;  they 
understand  love  better  than  art,  and  believe  themselves 
pretty  enough  for  one  to  drop  crayons  and  palettes  as 
soon  as  one  sees  them.  According  to  their  idea  only  the 
ugly  ought  to  pose.  A  singular  theory,  but  which  is  ex- 
plained, however,  by  their  ingenuous  and  fiery  imagina- 
tions. They  do  not  imagine  that  a  young  man  can 
coldly  copy  their  beauty,  and  cast  upon  it  that  analytical 
and  scrutatory  gaze  which  metamorphoses  the  living 
flesh  into  marble.  These  ideas  may  perhaps  furnish  the 
reason  for  the  unique  type  of  woman  employed  by  every 
Italian  master. 

La  Vicenza,  who,  in  any  other  respect  would  surely 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

have  shown  herself  more  accommodating,  made  many  dif- 
ficulties, but  finally  agreed  to  come  to  pose  for  us,  ac- 
companied by  one  of  her  friends,  an  ancient  danseuse  of 
the  Fenice.  To  speak  the  truth  she  had  no  faith  in  our 
sketch,  and  flattered  herself  upon  a  more  gallant  rendez- 
vous ;  her  incredulity  ceased  only  when  she  saw  us  oj^en 
our  box  of  paints,  arrange  our  paper  and  our  pencils. 

Vicenza  afforded  a  brown  variety  of  Venetian  beauty 
which  is  not  met  with  in  the  pictures  of  the  old  masters, 
altogether  devoted  to  the  blonde  type,  the  only  one 
which  they  represented.  She  had  a  skin  of  an  in- 
credible fineness,  an  amber  paleness,  black  eyes,  noc- 
turnal and  velvety,  red  lips,  and  an  expression  at  the 
same  time  sweet  and  untamed. 

All  the  while  she  was  posing  she  bit  and  chewed  the 
roses  which  she  plucked  from  her  bouquet,  took  off  and 
put  on  her  ring,  made  her  slipper  dance  on  her  toe,  and 
got  up  from  her  chair  every  minute  in  order  to  come 
and  look  over  our  shoulder  at  the  work  which  was  going 
on.  We  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  her  to  return  to 
her  place  and  put  herself  in  position. 

At  last  the  portrait  was  finished,  good  or  bad ;  she  was 
satisfied  with  it  and  took  it  to  give  to  her  lover.  But 
we  preserved  a  copy,  which  suffices  to  prove,  in  spite  of 
Paul  Veronese,  of  Giorgione,  of  Titian  and  their  golden- 
haired  women,  that  there  has  been  at  least  one  pretty 
brunette  in  Venice. 


[     299     ] 


CHAPTER    XXVI 
DETAILS    OF    HABITS    AND    CUSTOMS 


THE  season  was  advancing.  Our  sojourn  in  Ven- 
ice was  prolonged  beyond  the  limits  which  we 
had  fixed  in  the  general  plan  for  our  journey. 
We  delayed  our  departure  from  week  to  week,  from 
day  to  day,  and  we  always  found  some  good  reason  for 
remaining.  In  vain  did  light  fogs  begin  to  hover  in 
the  morning  over  the  lagune.  In  vain  did  a  sudden 
shower  force  us  to  take  refuge  under  the  arcades  of  the 
Procuraties  or  the  portico  of  a  church  ;  in  vain  when  we 
wandered  in  the  light  of  the  moon  on  the  Grand  Canal  did 
the  cold  night-air  sometimes  oblige  us  to  raise  the  glass 
of  the  gondola  and  to  let  fall  the  black  cloth  of  the  felce. 
We  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  warnings  of  autumn. 

We  always  recollected  a  palace,  a  church,  or  a  pic- 
ture which  we  had  not  seen.  It  was,  in  fact,  necessary 
before  quitting  Venice  to  visit  that  white  church  of 
Santa  Maria  Formosa,  made  famous  by  the  celebrated 
"  Sainte  Barbe,"  so  superbly  beautiful,  of  Palma  the 
elder  ;  that  Palace  of  Bianca  Capello,  to  Avhich  are 
attached  memories  of  an  amorous  legend  altogether 
Venetian  and  full  of  a  romantic  charm,  not  even  de- 
stroyed by  the  sign  of  a  French  modiste,  Madam  Adele 
Torchere,  who  sells  bonnets  and  hats  in  the  room  in 
which,  leaning  from  the  balcony,  the  beautiful  creature 
was  wont  to  dream  ;  and  that  superb  and  odd  church  of 
San  Zaccaria,  in  which  is  to  be  found  a  wonderful  altar 
picture,  all  glittering  with  gold,  by  Antonio  Vivarini, 
given  by  Ilelene  Foscari  and  INIarino  Donato,  and  also 
the  tomb  of  that  great  sculptor,  Alexander  Vittoria, 
Qui  vivens  vivos  duxit  de  marviore  vultus, 
[     300     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

a  magnificent  conceit  for  an  epitaph,  which  is  justified 
on  this  occasion  by  a  host  of  statues. 

Then  there  is  something  else,  a  forgotten  isle,  Ma- 
zorbo  or  Torcello,  where  there  is  a  curious  Byzantine 
basilica  and  some  Roman  remains ;  then  a  picturesque 
fa9ade  upon  a  httle-frequented  canal,  of  which  a  sketch 
must  be  made ;  a  thousand  motifs  of  this  kind,  all  rea- 
sonable, all  excellent,  but  which  were  not  the  real  ones, 
although  we  made  ourselves  believe  them  to  be  true. 
We  yielded  in  spite  of  ourselves  to  that  melancholy 
which  seizes  the  heart  of  the  most  determined  traveler 
at  the  moment  he  is  about  to  place  himself  at  a  dis- 
tance, perhaps  forever,  from  a  long-desired  country, 
from  a  place  in  which  he  has  passed  many  charming 
days  and  beautiful  nights. 

There  are  certain  cities  from  which  one  separates 
himself  as  from  a  beloved  mistress,  with  heaving  breast 
and  eyes  filled  with  tears,  a  species  of  chosen  father- 
land where  one  is  more  easily  made  happy  than  else- 
where, and  to  which  one  dreams  of  returning  to  die, 
and  which  appear  to  you  in  the  midst  of  the  sorrows 
and  perplexities  of  life  like  an  oasis,  an  Eldorado,  a 
divine  city  to  which  ennui  has  no  access.  Grenada 
was  one  of  these  heavenly  Jerusalems  for  us,  shining 
under  a  golden  sun  in  the  distant  azures  of  the  mirage. 
We  had  thought  of  it  since  the  days  of  our  childhood ; 
we  quitted  it  with  tears  and  often  think  of  it  with 
regret.  Venice  will  be  for  us  another  Grenada,  per- 
haps even  more  regretted. 

Has  it  ever  happened  to  you  to  have  but  a  few  more 
days  to  spend  with  a  beloved  one  ?  One  gazes  at  him 
long,  fixedly,  sorrowfully,  in  order  thoroughly  to  engrave 
his  features  upon  the  memory;  one  saturates  oneself  with 
his  looks,  one  studies  him  under  all  his  aspects,  one 
notes  his  little  pecuHarities,  the  mole  near  the  mouth, 
the  dimple  in  the  cheek  or  hand ;  one  notes  the  inflec- 
[     301     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

tions  of  liis  voice,  one  endeavors  to  preserve  as  much  as 
possible  of  that  beloved  countenance  which  absence  is 
about  to  tear  away  from  you,  and  which  you  will  no 
longer  be  able  to  behold  save  in  your  heart ;  one  does 
not  leave  his  side  but  wishes  to  take  advantage  of  the 
remaining  time  up  to  the  end  of  the  last  minute ;  even 
sleep  seems  to  you  to  lend  wings  to  the  precious  hours, 
and  interminable  excuses  are  made  for  holding  his  liand 
fast  in  yours  without  your  noticing  that  the  stars  have 
begim  to  fade  and  that  the  blue  morning  light  is  begin- 
ning to  filter  through  the  curtains. 

We  experienced  this  feeling  in  regard  to  Venice.  In 
proportion  to  the  approach  of  the  moment  for  our  de- 
parture, the  more  dear  it  became  to  us.  Its  precious- 
ness  was  revealed  at  the  moment  we  were  to  lose  it. 
We  reproached  ourselves  with  having  made  a  poor  use 
of  the  time  of  our  sojourn,  and  bitterly  regretted  some 
hours  of  idleness,  some  lazy  concessions  to  the  enervat- 
ing influences  of  the  sirocco.  It  seemed  to  us  that  we 
might  have  seen  more,  taken  more  notes,  made  more 
sketches  ;  and  yet  we  had  fully  filled  our  role  of  trav- 
eler, God  knows ;  we  were  only  to  be  met  with  in 
churches,  galleries,  at  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  on 
the  Place  Saint  Mark,  at  the  Palace  of  the  Doges,  at 
the  Library.  Our  overworked  gondoliers  begged  for 
mercy:  we  scarcely  took  time  to  swallow  our  ice  at  the 
Cafe  Florian,  a  soup  of  sea-louse  and  some  polenta  at 
the  Gasthof  San  Gallo  or  at  the  tavern  of  the  Black 
Hat.  In  six  weeks  we  had  worn  out  three  pairs  of  eye- 
glasses, ruined  a  pair  of  opera-glasses,  lost  a  telescope. 
Never  before  did  any  one  surrender  himself  to  such  a 
debauch  of  the  eye.  We  gazed  fourteen  hours  each  day 
without  stopping.  If  we  had  dared  we  would  have 
continued  our  inspections  with  torches. 

The  last  few  days  this .  became  a  veritable  fever. 
We  made  a  general  tour  of  recapitulation  over  our 
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JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

course,  with  that  clear  and  ready  glance  of  the  man 
who  knows  the  thing  he  is  looking  for  and  goes 
straight  to  the  objects  he  is  in  search  of.  We  revisited 
that  fine  Ducal  Palace  which  was  specially  adapted  for 
the  scenery  of  a  drama  or  opera,  with  its  great  rosy 
walls,  its  white  trimmings,  its  two  stories  of  colum- 
nettes,  its  Arabian  trefoils ;  that  huge  Saint  Mark's,  the 
San  Sophia  of  the  Occident,  colossal  reliquary  of  de- 
parted civihzations,  cavern  of  gold  encrusted  with  mosa- 
ics, immense  aggregation  of  jasper,  porphyry,  antique 
fragments,  cathedral  of  pirates  enriched  by  the  spoils  of 
the  universe;  that  Campanile  which  carries  so  high  in 
air  that  golden  angel,  the  protector  of  Venice,  and 
guards  at  its  feet  the  little  cell  of  Sansovino,  carved 
like  a  jewel ;  that  tower  of  VHorlogc^  all  of  gold  and 
ultramarine,  where  on  a  large  dial  the  black  and  white 
hours  air  themselves ;  that  Libraiy  of  an  elegance 
wholly  Athenian,  crowned  by  svelte  mythological  stat- 
ues, laughing  memory  of  neighboring  Greece ;  and 
that  Grand  Canal,  bordered  by  a  double  row  of  pal- 
aces, Gothic,  Moorish,  Renaissance,  rococo,  whose  wholly 
different  facades  excite  wonder  by  the  inexhaustible 
fancifulness  and  perpetual  invention  of  their  details,  for 
the  study  of  which  man's  single  existence  would  not 
suffice  ;  that  splendid  gallery  wherein  is  displayed  the 
genius  of  Sansovino,  of  Scamozzi,  of  Pierre  Lombard, 
of  Palladio,  of  Longhena,  of  Bergamasco,  of  Rossi,  of 
Tremignan  and  other  wonderful  architects,  without 
counting  the  unknown,  the  humble  workmen  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  who  are  not  the  less  to  be  admired. 

We  wandered  about  in  our  gondola  from  the  point  of 
the  customhouse  to  the  point  of  Quintavalle  in  order  to 
fix  forever  in  our  mind  that  fairy  spectacle  which  paint- 
ing as  well  as  words  is  powerless  to  render,  and  we  de- 
voured, with  a  despairing  attention,  that  mirage  of  fata 
morgana^  about  to  vanish  forever  for  us. 
[     303     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

Now,  at  the  moment  of  putting  an  end  to  these 
already  too  lengthy  narrations,  of  which  the  impatient 
reader  will  have  rapidly  turned  over  the  leaves,  it 
seems  to  us  that  we  have  said  nothing,  that  we  have 
but  feebly  expressed  our  enthusiasm,  and  badly  copied 
our  superb  models.  Each  monument,  each  church, 
each  gallery  should  have  had  a  volume,  and,  moreover,  we 
have  spoken  only  of  what  is  visible  ;  we  refrained  from 
shaldng  o£E  the  dust  from  old  chronicles,  from  reviving 
extinct  memories  and  repeopling  with  their  former  in- 
habitants the  deserted  palaces ;  for  that  would  be  the 
task  for  an  entire  lifetime  and  we  have  been  obliged  to 
content  ourselves  with  drawing  on  our  paper  simple 
photographs  which  have  no  other  merit  than  their  sin- 
cerity. 

The  temptation  often  seized  us  to  detach  from  their 
frames  the  patricians  and  grandees  of  Titian,  of  Boni- 
fazio,  and  Paris  Bordone,  and  to  make  descend  from 
their  sculptured  frames  the  beautiful  women  of  Giorgi- 
one,  of  Paul  Veronese,  with  their  brocaded  robes,  their 
golden  hair,  in  order  to  animate  that  scenery  preserved 
intact  and  to  which  only  the  actors  are  wanting.  The 
magic  names  of  Dandolo,  of  Foscari,  of  Loredano,  of  Ma- 
rino Faliero,  of  Queen  Cornaro,  have  more  than  once 
excited  our  imagination.  Bvit  we  prudently  resisted  it. 
What  good  end  would  be  attained  by  making  over  ad- 
mirable poems  into  prose? 

Our  task  was  a  more  humble  one.  In  reading  the 
accounts  of  travelers,  we  were  seized  with  a  desire  for 
more  precise,  intimate  details,  details  more  drawn  from 
life,  more  circumstantial  statements  in  regard  to  those 
thousand  petty  differences  which  call  one's  attention  to 
the  fact  that  one  has  changed  one's  country.  General  state- 
ments in  pompous  style,  historical  criticisms  more  or  less 
correct,  tell  us  what  we  know  already  and  give  us  little 
information  as  to  the  shape  of  the  hats,  the  cut  of  the 
[     304     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

gowns,  the  quality  and  name  of  the  viands,  in  this  or 
that  city.  We  have  taken  our  booty  of  all  this  sort  of 
thing  and  described  the  houses,  the  wine-shops,  the 
streets,  the  wharves,  the  handbills  of  the  theatre,  the 
marionettes,  the  Chinese  puppet  shows,  the  cafds,  the 
wandering  musicians,  the  children,  the  old  men  and 
young  girls,  everything  that  is  ordinarily  disdained. 

Is  it  not  as  interesting  to  know  how  a  Venetian  gri- 
sette  di^esses  her  hair  and  how  her  shawl  is  folded  upon 
her  shoulders,  as  to  hear  recounted  for  the  hundredth 
time  the  beheading  of  the  Doge  Marino  Faliero  on  the 
Staircase  of  the  Giants,  which  (by  way  of  parenthesis) 
was  only  built  a  century  or  two  after  his  death  ?  Do 
you  think  it  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  learn  whether 
the  coffee  is  filtered  or  boiled,  in  the  Oriental  fashion, 
at  the  Florian  and  the  Costanza?  Does  not  this  little 
fact  of  the  thick  Turkish  coffee  tell  all  the  past  of  Ven- 
ice? And  if  we  have  stupidly  copied  here  a  list  of 
names  collected  from  the  sign-boards  and  the  walls,  the 
peculiar  phj'siognomy  of  which  announces  that  we  are 
in  neither  Paris  nor  London,  such  names  as  Ermagora, 
Zamora  Fagozzo,  Zanobrio,  Dario,  Pateniian,  Farsetti, 
Erizzo,  Mangile  Valmarana,  Zorzi,  Condulraer,  Valca- 
monica.  Corner  Zaguri,  etc.,  will  you  not  be  amused 
and  pleased  by  the  euphony  and  appearance  of  these 
names  so  local,  so  romantic,  so  flowing  and  so  soft  to 
the  ear  ?  Will  not  this  litany  bring  to  you  an  echo  of 
the  Venetian  harmony  ? 

We  are  still  far  from  having  carried  out  this  program. 
Architecture  has  often  tempted  us  and  we  have  often 
abused,  in  spite  of  the  precepts  of  Boileau,  the  astragal 
and  the  festoon.  The  street  and  its  sights  always  new 
has  many  times  prevented  us  from  entering  the  houses, 
something  not  always  easy  for  the  traveler,  that  skim- 
ming swallow  who  arrives  with  the  pleasant  season  and 
flies  away  with  it.  The  morals  of  Venetian  society  do 
[     305     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

not  perhaps  occupy  a  sufficient  place  in  these  sketches, 
and  in  them  the  picture  has  often  taken  precedence 
over  the  man.  But  in  this  age  of  hypocrisy  and  of  cant 
one  has  not  the  joyous  hberty  of  the  President  des 
Brosses,  and  it  is  difficult  to  speak  of  morals  without 
being  immoral. 

To  narrate  one's  own  adventures  is  foolishness  ;  to 
narrate  those  of  others  is  to  be  guilty  of  an  indiscretion. 
Can  one,  moreover,  betray  the  secret  of  the  intimacies 
into  which  one  has  been  cordially  admitted,  and  repeat 
in  a  book  that  which  has  been  whispered  in  one's  ear? 
The  exterior  forms  of  life  to-day  are  almost  everywhere 
exactly  alike,  especially  in  good  society.  Is  it  necessary  to 
state  that  the  cicisheos  no  longer  exist  and  that  the  Vene- 
tian women  have  lovers,  like  the  women  of  Paris,  Lon- 
don, or  any  other  place?  If  a  more  local  observation  is 
desired,  let  us  add  that  they  often  have  one,  but  rarely 
two,  a  feature  of  morals  which  can  be  extended  to  cover 
the  whole  of  Italy ;  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  con- 
sidered good  taste  for  this  lover  to  be  an  Austrian;  that 
is  a  method  of  resisting  oppression  and  of  isolating  the 
enemy. 

The  ancient  ruined  families  live  in  retirement  and 
poorly,  and  the  owner  of  a  palace  dines  in  a  room  cov- 
ered with  paintings  by  great  masters,  on  a  dish  of 
polenta,  of  fried  fish,  or  shell-fish,  which  a  single  valet 
has  procured  from  the  tavern. 

The  summer  is  spent  in  the  country  in  country- 
houses  festooned  with  vines,  on  the  borders  of  the 
Brenta,  in  the  little  farms  of  Friulia.  Venice  is  only 
returned  to  in  winter,  which  is  a  custom  equally  prac- 
ticed in  Paris.  The  patricians  who  no  longer  have 
country-houses,  and  cannot  for  want  of  means  travel 
upon  the  mainland,  cloister  themselves  during  the  en- 
tire season  and  onl}^  reappear  at  the  period  when  it  is 
permissible  to  frequent  the  Place  Saint  Mark.     There 

[     30G     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

are  exceptions  to  all  this,  naturally.  There  are  Vene- 
tian women  without  lovers  and  some  wealthy  Vene- 
tians. The  contrary  of  what  we  have  stated  is  also 
true.  Festivals,  balls,  dinners,  are  rare.  The  fear  of 
spies  and  informers  makes  this  society  very  reserved. 
One  only  amuses  oneself  in  private  and  in  company 
with  confidential  friends.  This  makes  the  observation 
of  habits  and  customs  difficult  for  a  traveler. 

Perhaps  those  who  have  been  so  kind  as  to  read  what 
we  have  written  will  have  reproached  us  for  the  myriad 
names  of  artists  gathered  as  if  at  random.  It  cer- 
tainly was  not  for  the  purpose  of  parading  a  vain 
erudition  ;"  the  Venetian  school  is  of  a  richness  so  fabu- 
lous that  our  prolixity  even  seems  to  us  like  the  brev- 
ity of  ingratitude.  The  genealogical  tree  of  art  has 
branches  so  luxuriant,  so  loaded  with  fruit  in  this  fer- 
tile city,  that  it  is  as  difficult  to  follow  its  ramifications 
as  those  of  the  genealogical  tree  of  the  Virgin  in  the 
Cathedral  of  Saint  Mark;  there  are  only  kings,  saints, 
patriarchs,  and  prophets. 

On  this  side  and  that  of  the  four  great  names  which 
personify  Venetian  art,  —  Giorgione,  Titian,  Paul  Vero- 
nese, Tintoretto,  —  there  are  entire  families  of  admira- 
ble painters.  From  Antoine  de  Miu-ano  to  Tiepolo, 
with  whom  the  race  became  extinct,  a  book  of  gold  of 
a  thousand  leaves  would  be  necessary  in  which  to  write 
those  unknown  names  wliich  deserve  to  be  made  srlori- 
ous.  The  least  of  these  artists  would  be  considered  a 
great  genius  to-day. 

In  giving  an  account  of  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts, 
we  expressed  all  our  admiration  for  that  marvelous 
Gothic  school  of  the  Vivarini,  the  Basaiti,  the  Carpac- 
cio,  and  Gentil  Bellin,  which  to  all  the  feeling  of  An- 
drea Mantegna  of  Perugino  and  of  Albert  Diirer,  joins  a 
coloring  to  which  Giorgione  already  is  hastening.  But 
among  the  painters  of  the  Decadence,  who  begin  with 

[     307     ]    . 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

the  death  of  Titian,  what  fecundity,  what  facility,  what 
spirit  and  color ! 

To  write  their  names  here  wovild  awaken  no  idea ;  it 
would  be  necessary  to  add  to  them  an  analysis  of  their 
immense  work,  to  characterize  their  various  styles,  to 
reconstruct  their  biography.  It  is  a  work  which  we 
shall  perhaps  perform  and  to  which  we  have  often  been 
tempted ;  but  a  residence  of  ten  years  in  Venice  would 
be  necessary  for  its  accomplishment.  That  is  what 
would  determme  us  to  undertake  it.  They  have  wholly 
covered  with  paintings  and  frescoes  churches  and  palaces; 
they  have  taken  advantage  of  the  least  vacant  space  left 
by  Tintoretto. 

What  is  not  generally  known  is  that  Venice  is 
crowded  with  sculptures,  bas-reliefs,  figures  of  marble 
and  of  bronze  of  the  rarest  merit,  works  of  sculptors 
equal  to  its  painters,  and  who  are  never  spoken  of,  we 
know  not  why.  We  have  named  a  few  of  these  artists  ; 
but  whoever  should  insist  upon  a  complete  list  would 
have  to  read  a  tremendously  long  litany.  How  capricious 
is  human  glory  !  Who  speaks  now  of  Vittoria,  of 
Aspetti,  of  Leopardo,  of  Sansovino,  and  so  many  other 
sculptors  ? 


[     808     ] 


PADUA 

Falacc  of  the  Royal  University 


•  ♦••••TfTTTTTTTTTifTTTTiTTTTTTiii 

CHAPTER    XXVII 
PADUA 


NOW,  although  it  cuts  like  a  knife,  we  must  de- 
part. Padua,  the  city  of  Ezzelin  and  Angelo, 
calls  us.  Farewell,  dear  Campo  San  Mose,  where 
we  have  passed  so  many  happy  hours ;  farewell,  sunsets 
beliind  la  Salute,  moonlight  effects  on  the  Grand  Canal, 
the  beautiful  blonde  girls  of  the  Public  Gardens,  the 
gay  dinners  under  the  arbor  at  Quintavalle ;  farewell, 
fine  art  and  splendid  painting,  romantic  palaces  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  Greek  facades  of  Palladio ;  farewell, 
turtle-doves  of  Saint  Mark's ;  farewell,  gulls  of  the 
lagune,  sea-baths  on  the  beach  at  the  Lido,  excursions  in 
the  gondolas ;  farewell,  Venice,  and  if  it  be  forever, 
farewell !  as  said  Lord  Byron  of  disdainful  visage. 

The  railway  carries  us  away,  and  already  the  Venus 
of  the  Adriatic  has  replunged  her  white  and  rosy  body 
under  the  azure  of  the  sea. 

To  leave  a  gondola  to  climb  into  a  railway  train  is  a 
discordant  action.  Those  two  words  do  not  seem  fitted 
to  find  themselves  side  by  side.  The  one  expresses  the 
romanticism  of  recollections,  the  other  the  prosaicism  of 
reality. 

Zorzi  de  Cataro  brusquely  delivers  you  over  to  Ste- 
phenson. You  were  in  Venice  and  here  you  are  in  Eng- 
land or  America.  O  Titian !  O  Paul  Veronese !  who 
could  have  believed  that  one  day  your  turquoise  sky 
would  be  soiled  by  British  coal,  and  that  the  azure  of 
your  lagunes  would  reflect  the  arches  of  a  viaduct !  So 
goes  the  world  ;  but  here  the  contrast  is  more  percepti- 
ble, for  the  forms  of  bygone  ages  are  preserved  intact, 
and  the  Present  lives  in  the  skin  of  the  Past. 

[     309    ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

We  had  already  passed  over  this  road,  but  in  the  op- 
posite direction,  from  Verona  to  Venice.  A  storm 
breaking  npon  us  with  thunder,  lightning,  and  rain 
showed  us  under  a  specially  wild  and  fantastic  aspect 
that  country  which,  seen  in  ordinary  weather,  oifers  to 
view  a  succession  of  well-cultivated  fields,  intersected  by 
canals,  garlanded  with  vines  running  joyously  from  one 
tree  to  another,  pretty  prospects  serrated  with  blue  hill- 
sides, strewn  with  villas  whose  whiteness  stands  out 
upon  the  green  of  the  gardens. 

We  had  with  us  in  the  carriage  two  or  three  monks 
of  quite  pleasant  appearance,  and  some  young  abb^s, 
tall  and  thin,  with  oval  heads,  of  that  pallor  and  dead 
tone  dear  to  the  Italian  masters,  and  who  resembled 
Gothic  angels  of  Fiesole,  their  nimbus  of  gold  replaced 
by  a  three-cornered  hat.  One  of  them  recalled  exactly 
the  portrait  of  Raphael ;  but  the  dulled  eye  had  no 
sparkle,  and  the  mouth  opened  vaguely  in  a  silly  smile ; 
but  for  that  it  would  have  been  possessed  of  a  perfect 
beauty.  The  sight  of  these  Seminarists  made  us  reflect 
that  in  France  the  adolescent  does  not  exist.  That 
charming  transition  from  childhood  to  youth  is  wholly 
wanting  with  us.  Between  the  hideous  schoolboj^  with 
big  red  hands  and  ill-formed  figure,  and  the  jolly  dog 
who  shaves  himself  or  wears  a  beard,  there  is  nothing 
at  all.  The  Greek  cjjchche,  the  Algerian-  yalouled,  the 
Italian  ragazzo^  the  Spanish  muchacJw,  fill  up,  with  their 
young  charm  and  their  still  uncertain  beauty,  the  gap 
which  separates  the  child  from  the  man.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  discover  why  we  are  deprived  of  that 
shade  ;  for  there  are  some  handsome  English  adolescents, 
a  trifle  booby ish,  by  reason  of  the  jacket  and  sailors' 
trousers  which  they  are  condemned  to  wear. 

In  pondering  over  this  problem  of  phj'^siology,  we  ar- 
rived at  the  station ;  ten  leagues  are  soon  devoured, 
even  upon  an  Itahan  railway.     There  a  crowd  of  raga- 

[     310     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

muffins  and  cabmen  awaited  our  descent,  with  yells  and 
ferocious  gesticulations ;  tliey  quarreled  among  them- 
selves over  the  travelers  and  the  baggage,  as  formerly 
the  "coucou"  cabmen  on  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  or 
the  "  robeiroou  "  of  Avignon  on  the  Quay  du  Rhone. 
One  takes  you  by  the  arm,  another  by  the  leg.  You  are 
lifted  from  the  ground,  and  if  you  are  not  sufficiently 
muscular  to  calm  that  ardor  by  some  vigorous  raps,  you 
run  a  risk  of  being  quartered  like  a  regicide  and  drawn 
by  four  street  porters. 

A  score  of  open  carriages,  cabriolets,  berlingots  and 
other  vehicles  were  stationed  at  the  gate  of  the  station. 
This  surprised  us  and  we  were  rejoiced  once  more  to 
behold  horses  and  carriages.  It  had  been  almost  two 
months,  if  the  horse  at  Murano  be  excepted,  since  that  had 
happened  to  us. 

We  hired  an  open  carriage  to  take  us  and  our  trunk 
as  far  as  Padua,  which  is  a  short  distance  from  the  rail- 
way. Unaccustomed  as  we  had  become  to  all  tumult  of 
this  kind  through  familiarity  with  the  silent  locomotion 
of  Venice,  the  hubbub  of  w^heels  and  stamping  of  the 
horses  were  deafening  to  us  and  almost  insupportable ; 
several  days  were  necessary  to  accustom  us  to  it. 

Padua  is  an  ancient  city  and  exliibits  a  rather  respec- 
table appearance  against  the  horizon  with  its  bell-tur- 
rets, its  domes,  and  its  old  walls  upon  which  myriads  of 
lizards  rmi  and  frisk  in  the  sun.  Situated  near  a  cen- 
tre which  attracts  life  to  itself,  Padua  is  a  dead  city 
with  an  almost  deserted  air.  Its  streets,  bordered  by 
two  rows  of  low  arcades,  in  nowise  recall  the  elegant 
and  charming  architecture  of  Venice.  The  heavy,  mas- 
sive structures  have  a  serious,  somewhat  crabbed  aspect, 
and  its  somber  porticos  in  the  lower  stories  of  the 
houses  resemble  black  mouths  which  yawn  with  ennui. 

We  were  conducted  to  a  big  inn,  established  probably 
in  some  ancient  palace,  and  whose  great   halls,  dishon- 

[     311     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

ored  by  vulgar  uses,  had  formerly  seen  better  company. 
It  was  a  real  journey  to  go  from  the  vestibule  to  our 
room  by  a  host  of  stairways  and  corridors ;  a  map  or 
Ariadne's  thread  would  have  been  needed  to  find  one's 
way  back. 

Our  windows  opened  upon  a  very  pleasant  view ;  a 
river  flows  at  the  foot  of  the  wall,  —  the  Brenta  or  the 
Bacchiglione,  I  kno^v  not  which,  for  both  water  Padua. 
The  banks  of  this  watercourse  were  adorned  with  old 
houses  and  long  walls,  and  trees,  too,  overhimg  the 
banks ;  some  rather  picturesque  rows  of  piles,  from 
which  the  fishermen  cast  their  lines  with  that  patience 
characteristic  of  them  in  all  countries;  huts  with  nets 
and  linen  hanging  from  the  windows  to  dry,  formed  un- 
der the  sun's  rays  a  very  pretty  subject  for  a  water- 
color. 

After  dinner  we  went  to  the  Caf  ^  Pedrocchi,  celebrated 
throughout  all  Italy  for  its  magnificence.  Nothing  could 
be  more  monumentally  classic.  There  are  nothing  but 
pillars,  columnettes,  ovolos,  and  palm  leaves  of  the  Per- 
cier  and  Fontain  kind,  the  whole  very  fine  and  lavish 
of  marble.  What  was  most  curious  was  some  immense 
maps  forming  a  tapestry  and  representing  the  different 
divisions  of  the  world  on  an  enormous  scale.  This  some- 
what pedantic  decoration  gives  to  the  hall  an  academic 
air ;  and  one  is  surprised  not  to  see  a  chair  in  place  of  the 
bar,  with  a  professor  in  his  gown  in  place  of  a  dispenser 
of  lemonade. 

The  University  of  Padua  was  formerly  famous.  In 
the  thirteenth  century  eighteen  thousand  young  men,  a 
whole  people  of  scholars,  followed  the  lessons  of  the 
learned  professors,  among  Avliom  later  Galileo  figured,  one 
of  whose  bones  is  preserved  there  as  a  relic,  a  relic  of  a 
martyr  who  suffered  for  the  truth.  The  fagade  of  the 
University  is  very  beautiful ;  four  Doric  columns  give  it 
a  severe  and  monumental  air ;  but  solitude  reigns  in  the 
[     312     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

class-rooms  where  to-day  scarcely  a  thousand  students 
can  be  reckoned. 

The  bulletin  of  the  theatre  announced  the  "Barber 
of  Seville,"  by  Rossini,  and  a  ballet ;  occupation  for  our 
evening  was  found. 

The  hall  was  very  simple ;  the  scenery  seemed  as 
though  painted  by  a  glazier  in  merry  mood  and  recalled 
those  comedies  in  pasteboard  with  which  children  amuse 
themselves.  But  the  actors  had  fresh  voices  and  that 
natural  aptitude  which  characterizes  the  poorest  Italian 
singers.  The  Rosine  was  young  and  charming  and  the 
Basil  recalled  Tamburini  by  the  profundity  of  his  base. 
The  air  of  the  "  Calumny  "  was  as  well  sung  as  would 
have  been  looked  for  in  a  theatre  of  the  first  rank. 

But  that  which  was  really  strange  was  the  ballet, 
composed  in  a  fossil  and  antediluvian  style  that  was  ex- 
tremely entertaining.  We  saw  ourselves  carried  back 
as  though  by  magic  to  the  good  days  of  the  classic  melo- 
drama, to  the  pure  school  of  Guilbert  de  Pixiricourt  and 
of  Caigniez  ;  the  scenery  recalled  the  Aqueducs  de  Cos- 
enza  BoleiHt^  clicf  de  hrigands^  the  Pont  du  Torrent,  and 
other  masterpieces  forgotten  by  the  present  generation. 
It  was  a  story  of  a  traveler  lost  in  the  woods,  of  a  cut- 
throat inn,  of  a  tender-hearted  young  girl,  and  of  bandits 
habited  like  Cossacks,  with  immense  red  pantaloons, 
formidable  beards,  and  an  arsenal  of  cutlasses  and  of 
pistols  in  their  girdles,  the  whole  interspersed  with  dances 
and  combats  with  the  sabre  and  the  axe,  as  in  the  most 
glorious  days  of  the  Funambules. 

A  handsome  officer  went  through  those  horrible  ad- 
ventures with  the  heroism  required  of  every  young  lead- 
ing man,  followed  by  the  inevitable  Jocrisse.  But,  sin- 
gular fancy,  this  Jocrisse  was  a  soldier  of  the  Old  Guard, 
clothed  in  a  uniform  in  tatters,  adorned  with  a  red  nose 
issuing  from  a  brushwood  of  mustache  and  gray  whis- 
kers.    The  absurdity  of  the  thing  was  in  the  perpetual 

[     313     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

fright  of  the  soldier  of  the  Old  Guard  who  was  frantic 
with  terror  and  cowardice,  and  whose  teeth  chattered  at 
the  least  rustling  of  leaves.  To  make  of  this  type  of 
bravery  an  ideal  of  poltroonry,  to  represent  a  soldier  of 
the  Grande  Armee  as  possessed  of  the  fears  of  Pierrot 
of  the  pantomimes,  seemed  to  us  as  a  hazardous  notion 
and  in  detestable  taste. 

The  following  day  we  paid  a  visit  to  the  Cathedral 
dedicated  to  Saint  Anthony,  who  enjoys  at  Padua  the 
same  reputation  as  Saint  Januarius  at  Naples.  He  is 
the  genius  loci,  the  Saint  venerated  above  all  others.  He 
used  to  perform  not  less  than  thirty  miracles  each  day, 
if  Casanova  is  to  be  believed.  Such  a  performance  fairly 
earned  for  him  his  surname  of  Thaumaturge,  but  this  pro- 
digious zeal  has  fallen  off  greatly.  Nevertheless,  the 
reputation  of  the  Saint  has  not  suffered,  and  so  many 
masses  are  paid  for  at  his  altar  that  the  number  of  the 
priests  of  the  Cathedral  and  of  days  in  the  year  are  not 
sufficient.  To  liquidate  the  accounts,  the  Pope  has 
granted  permission,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  for  masses  to 
be  said,  each  one  of  which  is  of  the  value  of  a  thousand  ; 
in  this  fashion  Saint  Anthony  is  saved  from  being  bank- 
rupt to  his  faithful  devotees. 

On  the  Place  which  adjoins  the  Cathedral,  a  beautiful 
equestrian  statue  by  Donatello,  in  bronze,  rises  to  view, 
the  first  which  had  been  cast  since  the  days  of  antiquity, 
representing  a  leader  of  banditti :  Gattamelata,  a  brigand 
who  surely  did  not  deserve  that  honor.  But  the  artist 
has  given  him  a  superb  bearing  and  a  spirited  figui-e 
with  his  baton  of  a  Roman  emperor,  and  it  is  entirely 
sufficient. 

The  Church  of  Saint  Anthony  is  composed  of  an  ag- 
gregation of  cupolas  and  bell- turrets  and  of  a  great  brick 
fa9ade,  with  triangular  pediment,  beneath  which  runs  a 
gallery  with  ogives  and  columns;  three  small  doors, 
pierced  in  the  lofty  arches  correspond  to  the  three  naves. 
[     314     ] 


PADUA 

Cathedral.     (Hij  A7id.  della  Valle,  Righetti,  etc.) 


£SS2i 


JOURNEYS     IN      ITALY 

The  interior  is  excessively  rich,  encumbered  with  chap- 
els and  tombs  in  various  styles.  Specimens  of  the  art 
of  all  periods  are  to  be  seen  there,  from  the  innocent, 
religious,  and  delicate  art  of  the  Middle  Ages  to  the 
most  irregular  fantasies  of  rococo  ornamentation. 

The  cloister  attached  to  the  church  is  paved  with 
gravestones,  and  its  walls  have  disappeared  under  the 
sepulchral  monuments  with  which  they  are  covered ;  we 
read  a  number  of  epitaphs,  which  were  very  fine.  The 
Italians  have  preserved  from  their  ancestors  the  secret 
of  lapidary  Latin. 

Saint  Justine  is  an  enormous  church  with  a  bare  facade 
and  an  interior  architecture  of  a  poor  and  wearisome  so- 
briety. Good  taste  is  necessary,  but  not  too  much,  and 
we  still  prefer  the  mild  exuberance  of  the  rococo  to  nig- 
gardhness.  A  fine  altar  picture  by  Paul  Veronese  re- 
lieves this  poverty.  If  the  church  is  flat  and  character- 
less, one  cannot  say  the  same  of  two  gigantic  monsters 
which  guard  it,  lyiug  upon  the  stairway  like  faithful 
dogs.  Never  did  Japanese  chimera  wear  a  more  fearful 
and  terrible  aspect  than  these  fantastic  animals,  a  species 
of  liideous  grilhns,  with  the  hind  quarters  of  the  lion, 
eagles'  wings,  stupid  and  ferocious  head,  terminated  by 
a  hooked  beak  pierced  by  oblique  nostrils  like  those  of  a 
turtle.  These  monstrous  beasts  hold  pressed  against 
their  breasts,  between  their  claws,  a  warrior  on  horse- 
back, caparisoned  in  armor  of  the  Middle  Ages,  whom 
they  crush  with  a  slow  pressure,  vaguely  gazing  at  him 
all  the  while,  like  the  cow  of  which  Victor  Hugo  speaks, 
without  otherwise  disquieting  themselves  with  the  con- 
vulsive struggles  of  the  crushed  warrior. 

What  does  this  cavalier  taken  with  his  mount  in  the 
clutches  of  these  cowering  monsters  signify?  What 
myth  lies  hidden  under  this  sombre  sculptural  fantasy  ? 
Do  these  groups  ilkistrate  some  legend,  or  are  they  sim- 
ply the  sinister  hieroglyphics  of  fatality?     We  admit  we 

[     315     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

cannot  conjecture,  and  we  have  found  no  one  able  or 
willing  to  explain  the  matter  for  us.  The  other  day, 
while  turning  over  the  leaves  of  an  album  which  Prince 
Soltykoif  brought  with  him  from  India,  we  found  in  the 
propyloBum  of  a  Hindoo  pagoda  identical  monsters,  also 
crushing  a  man  against  their  breasts. 

Whatever  the  meaning  of  these  terrifying  groups  may 
be,  one  confusedly  divines  in  them  vague  memories  of 
cosmogonic  antagonisms  and  of  struggles  between  the 
two  principles  of  good  and  evil ;  it  is  Ahriman,  van- 
quisher of  Ormuzd,  or  Siva  overthrowing  Vishnu. 
Later,  under  the  portico  of  the  Cathedral  of  Ferrara,  we 
saw  two  of  these  chimeras  who  this  time  were  crush- 
ing lions. 

One  thing  which  must  not  be  neglected  in  passing 
through  Padua  is  a  visit  to  the  old  Church  of  the  Arena, 
situated  at  the  rear  of  a  garden  of  luxuriant  vegetation, 
where  it  would  certainly  not  be  conjectured  to  be  located 
unless  one  were  advised  of  the  fact. 

The  church  is  entirely  painted  in  its  interior  by  Gi- 
otto. Not  a  single  column,  not  a  single  rib,  nor  archi- 
tectural division  interrupts  that  vast  tapestry  of  frescoes. 
The  general  aspect  is  soft,  azure,  starry,  like  a  beautiful, 
calm  sky  ;  ultramarine  dominates  ;  thirty  compartments 
of  large  dimensions,  indicated  by  simple  lines,  contain  the 
life  of  the  Virgin  and  of  her  Divine  Son  in  all  their  de- 
tails ;  they  might  be  called  illustrations  in  miniature  of 
a  gigantic  missal.  The  personages,  by  naive  anachronisms 
very  precious  for  history,  are  clothed  in  the  mode  of  the 
times  in  which  Giotto  painted. 

Below  these  compositions  of  the  purest  religious  feel- 
ing, a  painted  plinth  shows  the  seven  deadly  sins  sym- 
boHzed  in  an  ingenious  manner,  and  other  allegorical 
figures  of  a  very  good  style;  a  Paradise  and  a  Hell,  sub- 
jects which  greatly  impressed  the  minds  of  the  artists 
of  that  epoch,  complete  this  marvelous  whole.     There 

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JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

are  in  these  paintings  weird  and  touching  details ;  chil- 
dren issue  from  their  little  coffins  to  mount  to  Paradise 
with  a  joyous  ardor,  and  launch  themselves  forth  to  go 
to  play  upon  the  blossoming  turf  of  the  celestial  garden ; 
others  stretch  forth  their  hands  to  their  half-resurrected 
mothers.  The  remark  may  also  be  made  that  all  the 
devils  and  vices  are  obese,  while  the  angels  and  virtues 
are  thin  and  slender.  The  painter  wishes  to  mark  the 
preponderance  of  matter  in  the  one  class  and  of  spirit 
in  the  other. 

We  ought  to  note  here  a  picturesque  and  physiological 
peculiarity.  The  Paduan  type  differs  greatly  from  that 
of  the  Venetians,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  two  cities 
are  near  neighbors  :  the  beauty  of  the  Paduans  is  more 
severe  and  more  classic ;  thick  brown  hair,  decided  eye- 
brows, a  dark  and  serious  countenance,  a  complexion  of 
an  olive  paleness,  recall  the  prominent  features  of  the 
Lombard  race  ;  the  black  laiite  in  which  these  pretty 
girls  frame  their  countenances,  gives  them,  as  they  walk 
in  silence  along  the  deserted  arcades,  a  proud  and  haughty 
air  wliich  contrasts  with  the  vague  smile  and  facile  grace 
of  the  Venetians. 

See,  in  addition,  on  the  Piazza  Salone,  the  Palace  of 
Justice,  a  vast  edifice  in  the  Moorish  style,  with  galleries, 
columnettes,  serrated  battlements,  which  contains  what 
is  perhaps  the  largest  hall  in  the  world,  and  recalls  the 
architecture  of  the  Ducal  Palace  at  Venice  ;  at  the 
Scuola  del  Santo,  some  glorious  frescos  by  Titian,  the 
only  ones  known  of  that  painter,  and  you  will  have  no 
great  regret  in  leaving  Padua. 

Instruments  of  torture  are  still  exliibited  there, 
wooden  horses,  strappados,  pincers,  tongs,  boots,  toothed 
wheels,  saws,  chopping  knives,  which  were  used  by  Ez- 
zelin,  upon  his  victims,  the  most  famous  tyrant  that  ever 
lived,  and  compared  with  whom  Angelo  was  an  angel  of 
mildness. 

[     ^1'^     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN      ITALY 

We  liad  a  letter  to  the  keeper  of  this  weird  collec- 
tion, made  for  a  museum  of  an  executioner.  We  did  not 
find  him,  to  our  great  regret,  and  we  departed  the  same 
evening  for  Rovigo,  tearing  ourselves  away  with  diffi- 
culty from  that  soft  Lombardo- Venetian  realm,  to  which 
nothing  is  wanting,  alas  1  except  liberty  I 


[     818     1 


FERRARA 

View  frovi  the  Bell-Tower  of  Saint  Benedict 


VVvivvvv^VYtT^vVVVv^^V^'vvvVv^VwVM 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
FERRARA 


AN  omnibus  took  us  in  a  few  hours  from  Padua  to 
Rovigo,  where  we  arrived  that  evening.  While 
waiting  for  our  supper,  we  wandered  about  the 
streets  of  the  city,  Hghted  by  a  clear  silvery  moon 
which  permitted  us  to  discern  the  silhouettes  of  the 
monuments.  Low  arcades  like  those  of  the  old  Palais 
Royal  at  Paris  extend  along  the  streets,  and  with  their 
alternations  of  light  and  shade  form  long  cloisters  which 
recalled  that  evening  the  effect  of  the  scenery  of  the  act 
in  which  the  nuns  appear  in  Rohert  le  Diahle. 

Rare  passers-by  filed  along  silently  like  ghosts ;  some 
plaintive  dogs  bayed  at  the  moon,  and  the  town  seemed 
already  asleep  ;  all  the  windows  were  dark,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  lighted  cafes,  in  which  the  habitues, 
with  a  wearied  and  somnolent  air,  were  consuming  ices, 
a  demi-tasse,  or  a  glass  of  water  in  little  spoonfuls,  by 
slow  sips,  sagely,  methodically,  stopping  often  to  read  an 
insignificant  article  in  the  censored  Diario,  like  people 
who  have  many  hours  to  spare  and  are  trying  to  reach 
the  time  for  going  to  bed. 

The  next  morning,  at  daybreak,  we  were  obliged  to 
climb  into  a  species  of  van,  a  cross  between  the  French 
"  patache  "  and  Valencian  "  tartane."  Delicate  travel- 
ers could  furnish  a  pathetic  elegy  upon  the  uncomfor- 
tableness  of  these  vehicles  ;  but  Spanish  post^riding  in  a 
cart  over  the  most  abominable  roads  in  the  world  have 
rendered  us  very  philosophical  in  regard  to  these  little 
inconveniences.  Moreover,  those  who  wish  to  have 
every  comfort  to  which  they  are  accustomed,  have  only 
to  remain  at  home.  One  of  Erter's  coupes  rolling  over 
[     319     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

the  macadam  of  the  Champs-Elys^es  is  infinitely  easier, 
and  it  is  indisputably  true  that  one  dines  better  at  the 
caf^  of  the  Provengaux  Brothers  than  at  the  wayside 
hostelries. 

The  road  from  Rovigo  to  Ferarra  has  nothing  very 
picturesque  about  it :  flat  lands,  cultivated  fields,  trees 
of  the  North,  —  one  might  believe  himself  in  a  Depart- 
ment of  France. 

One  crosses  the  Po  which  rolls  along  with  yellow 
tides,  and  whose  low  and  treeless  banks  vaguely  recall 
those  of  the  Guadalquiver  below  Seville.  The  impetuous 
Eridan,  deprived  of  its  tributes  from  the  melting  of  snow, 
had  at  the  moment  a  quite  calm  and  debonnaire  aspect. 

The  Po  separates  the  Romagna  from  the  Lombardo- 
Venetian  States,  and  the  customs  officials  await  you  on 
leaving  the  ferry-boat.  The  Italian  customhouses  in 
general  and  their  interminable  vexations  are  very  much 
complained  of.  We  must  avow  that  they  have  always 
passed  our  slender  baggage  with  less  over-scrupulous- 
ness, certainly,  than  we  would  have  experienced  on  a 
like  occasion  in  many  French  customhouses ;  it  is  true 
that  we  have  always  handed  over  our  keys  carelessly 
with  a  gracious  air  and  displayed  our  passport  on  every 
occasion  that  it  has  been  requested  with  the  celerity  and 
politeness  of  Pacelot  the  monkey. 

The  Romagnole  customhouse  people,  after  having 
negligently  rumpled  our  shirts  and  socks  and  seeing 
that  we  were  not  transporting  any  other  literature  than  a 
Richard  guide-book,  a  book  which  is  superlatively  be- 
nign and  little  subversive  of  established  order,  closed 
our  trunk  with  magnanimity  and  in  the  mildest  manner 
permitted  us  to  continue  our  journey. 

We  had  with  us  in  the  carriage  two  quite  aged 
priests,  heavy,  fat,  short,  with  oily  yellow  complexions, 
shaved  beards  whose  bluish  tints  showed  as  far  as  the 
cheek-bones  and  who  wore  without  being  aware  of  it 

[     320     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

the  costume  of  the  Basil  of  Beaumarchais.  With  us  the 
ecclesiastical  costume  has  almost  disappeared.  Priests 
in  France  secularize  themselves  as  much  as  they  are 
able  ;  very  seldom,  since  the  Revolutions  of  July  and 
February,  do  they  wear  the  soutane  openly  upon  the 
street.  A  hat  with  wide  brim,  black  coat  of  antique 
cut,  with  long  skirts,  a  cloak  of  sombre  hue,  compose  for 
them  a  mixed  costume  between  that  of  religion  and  of 
the  world  which  nearly  resembles  that  of  a  Quaker  or  of 
a  serious  man  who  has  renounced  elegancies  of  dress. 
They  are  only  priests  furtively,  and  it  is  only  in  church 
that  they  clothe  themselves  in  the  sacerdotal  insignia. 

In  Italy,  on  the  contrary,  they  strut  around  in  their 
real  character,  taking  the  right  of  way,  and  feeling 
at  home  everywhere,  blow  their  noses  and  cough  noisily, 
in  the  manner  of  persons  to  whom  all  respect  is  due  and 
who  have  nothing  to  embarrass  them. 

Those  of  whom  we  are  speaking  took  the  best  seats 
in  the  carriage,  which  we  yielded  to  them  with  the  def- 
erence which  their  age  and  condition  deserved,  and 
they  spread  themselves  out  expansively,  very  much  as 
though  they  would  have  usurped  the  seats  without  the 
least  word  of  excuse  or  the  slightest  regard  for  our 
ease  or  comfort.  It  is  true  that  we  were  in  the  States 
of  the  Pope,  where  the  priest  rules  as  absolute  master, 
having  possession  at  the  same  time  of  both  heaven  and 
earth,  the  keys  of  the  other  world  and  also  of  this, 
having  power  to  damn  us  and  to  hang  us,  to  slay  our 
soul  and  our  body.  The  knowledge  of  this  enormous 
power,  the  greatest  ever  bestowed,  gives  to  the  priests 
of  this  country  a  security,  an  aplomb,  a  magisterial 
and  sovereign  ease  of  which  one  has  no  idea  in  the 
countries  of  the  North. 

Our  two  curds,  since  that  was  probably  their  grade 
in  the  ecclesiastical  hierarchy,  exchanged  between  them- 
selves rare  and  mysterious  words  with  that  reserve  and 

[     321     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

prudence  which  never  abandons  the  priest  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  laity,  or  they  slept  or  murmured  the  Latin 
of  their  breviary  from  volumes  with  brown  covers  and 
red  edges,  divided  by  markers.  We  do  not  believe  that 
on  the  whole  journey  they  happened  to  look  out  upon 
the  landscape  through  the  curtain ;  was  it  because  they 
were  so  familiar  with  it,  or  did  they  fear  the  distrac- 
tions of  tlie  outside  world,  the  charm  of  that  eternal 
Nature  behind  which  hides  himself  the  great  Pan  of 
antiquity,  whom  the  Catholic  Middle  Ages  were  so 
obstinately  determined  to  take  for  the  devil  ? 

This  company,  respectable  assuredly,  but  the  dull 
coldness  of  which  froze  us,  quitted  us  at  Ferrara. 
Those  stolid  features  and  black  vestments  made  our 
coach  somewhat  resemble  a  hearse  and  we  saw  them  de- 
part with  ^^leasure. 

Ferrara  rises  solitary  in  the  midst  of  a  flat  country 
more  rich  than  picturesque.  When  one  enters  it  by  the 
broad  street  which  leads  to  the  square,  the  aspect  of  the 
city  is  imposing  and  monumental.  A  palace  with  a  grand 
staircase  occupies  a  corner  of  this  vast  square  ;  it  might 
be  a  court-house  or  a-  town  hall,  for  people  of  all  classes 
were  entering  and  departing  through  its  wide  doors. 

While  we  were  wandering  along  the  street,  satisfying 
our  curiosity  at  the  expense  of  our  appetite  and  robbing 
the  hour  accorded  to  our  breakfast  of  forty  minutes  in 
order  to  regale  our  eyes  and  perform  our  duty  as  a 
traveler,  a  strange  apparition  suddenly  stood  before  us, 
as  unexpected  as  a  phantom  could  be  at  midday.  It 
was  a  sort  of  spectre  masked  in  black,  his  head  ingulfed 
in  a  black  hood,  his  body  draped  with  a  frock,  or  rather 
a  violet  domino  trimmed  with  red,  having  a  red  cross  on 
his  shoulder,  a  brass  crucifix  hanging  from  his  neck,  a 
red  girdle,  and  waving  silently  a  small  wooden  box,  a 
portable  trunk  which  gave  forth  a  jingling  of  coin. 

This  scarecrow,  who  had  nothing  living  about  him  but 

[     322     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

his  eyes,  which  could  be  seen  to  shine  through  the  holes 
of  his  mask,  shook  his  money-box  two  or  three  times  in 
front  of  us,  who  were  so  startled  that  we  let  fall  into  it 
a  handful  of  small  coins,  without  knowing  for  what 
charitable  work  this  lugubrious  gatherer  was  begging. 
He  went  on  his  way  without  speaking  a  word,  with  a 
rattling  of  old  iron  and  of  small  change,  very  sinister 
and  very  lugubrious,  holding  out  his  box  into  which 
every  one  was  impelled  to  drop  a  small  coin. 

We  asked  to  what  order  this  phantom  belonged,  more 
terrifying  than  the  monks  and  ascetics  of  Zurbaran, 
who  so  paraded  the  frightfulness  of  nocturnal  visions  in 
the  pure  light  of  the  sun  and  made  real  in  the  street 
the  nightmare  of  painful  slumbers.  We  were  informed 
that  he  was  a  penitent  of  the  Brotherhood  of  Death, 
begging  in  order  to  buy  coffins  and  to  pay  for  the  saying 
of  masses  for  some  poor  devils  who  were  to  be  shot  this 
very  day,  brigands  or  republicans,  we  do  not  know 
which. 

These  penitents  assume  the  sad  and  charitable  mis- 
sion of  accompanying  those  condemned  to  death  to  the 
place  of  execution,  supporting  them  in  their  last  suffer- 
ings, raising  from  the  scaffold  the  mutilated  body,  lay- 
ing it  in  the  coffin  and  procuring  for  it  a  Christian  bur- 
ial. They  are  people  of  the  city  who  devote  themselves 
to  these  painful  tasks  and  so  mingle  a  tender  element, 
although  veiled  and  masked,  with  the  cold  and  implac- 
able immolations  of  justice.  These  spectres  hinder  the 
culprit  a  little  from  seeing  the  executioner.  It  is  the 
timid  protest  of  Humanity.  Often  these  Sisters  of  Cliar- 
ity  of  the  scaffold  are  made  ill  and  are  more  disturbed 
than  the  prisoner  himself. 

This  is  not  the  place   to  discuss  the  legitimacy  of 

capital  punishment.     Voices  more  listened  to  than  ours 

have  developed  with  much  eloquence  the  reasons  for 

and  against  it ;  but  since  that  horrible  judicial  tragedy 

C     323     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

is  maintained,  it  seems  to  us  that  the  surroundings 
ought  to  be  as  terrifying  as  possible.  It  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  shuffling  off  the  head  from  the  culprit  as 
nimbly  as  possible,  an  operation  which  in  no  way  softens 
the  punishment,  but  is  concerned  with  affording  a  fright- 
ful example,  to  act  on  the  imagination  and  restrain  from 
crime.  Every  lugubrious  spectacle  which  can  augment 
the  impression  of  this  bloody  drama  and  engrave  it  in 
bold  silhouettes,  at  the  base  of  the  memory  of  the  spec- 
tators, ought,  in  our  opinion,  to  be  set  to  work.  It  is 
necessary  that  physical  terror  combine  itself  with  moral 
terror.  Picture  to  yourselves  those  violet  Claude  Frol- 
los  holding  in  their  hands  lighted  candles  and  marching 
in  two  files  by  the  side  of  the  livid  prisoner  condemned 
to  death !  What  use  is  there  in  cutting  off  heads  if  no- 
body is  frightened  ?  If  it  is  desired  that  it  produce  its 
intended  effect,  the  taking  away  of  the  typical  features 
of  the  thing  should  be  avoided.  The  frankly  terrible  pun- 
ishment is  less  hideous  than  the  punishment  most  mildly 
commonplace  deprived  by  mechanical  contrivance  and 
philanthropy  of  its  affrighting  poetry.  But  enough  on  this 
miserable  subject ;  let  us  return  to  less  sombre  thoughts. 
It  was  market-day,  and  that  produced  a  little  anima- 
tion in  this  city  ordinarily  so  dull.  We  saw  nothing 
characteristic  in  the  way  of  costume ;  uniformity  per- 
vaded everything.  The  peasants  of  the  environs  of 
Ferrara  were  quite  like  our  peasants,  save  the  southern 
brilliancy  of  their  black  eyes  and  a  certain  haughtiness 
of  bearing  which  reminds  one  that  he  is  in  a  classic  land; 
the  products  of  autumn,  grapes,  pumpkins,  tomatoes, 
mingled  with  coarse  earthenware  and  the  utensils  of 
a  rural  household,  were  heaped  upon  the  Place,  amidst 
groups  of  buyers  and  gossipers ;  ox-carts,  much  less 
primitive  than  those  of  Spain;  asses  with  wooden  pack- 
saddles  awaiting  with  a  melancholy  patience  until  their 
masters  should  finish  their  business  and  return  ;  oxen 

•  [     324     ] 


FERIiARA 

The  Cathednd.      Tuvlfth  a ) id  fifteenth  centuries 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

lying  on  their  knees  and  ruminating  peacefully,  the 
asses  plucking  with  the  end  of  their  gray  lips  a  blade 
of  grass  springing  from  a  fissure  in  the  pavement. 

A  detail  peculiar  to  Ital}^  also  is  that  of  the  money- 
changers in  the  open  air.  Their  establishment  is  of  the 
most  simple  character  and  consists  of  a  stool  and  a  small 
table  on  which  are  ranged  piles  of  scudi,  bajoques  and 
other  pieces  of  money.  The  money-changer,  crouching 
like  a  dragon,  watches  his  httle  treasure  with  an  uneasy 
and  yellow  eye  in  which  is  depicted  the  incessant  fear  of 
thieves  whom  there  are  no  bars  to  keep  off. 

Let  us  note  another  wholly  Italian  detail :  A  sonnet 
in  praise  of  a  physician  who  had  cured  him  of  a  he- 
patic malady,  was  affixed  by  a  convalescent  full  of 
gratitude  to  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  walls  of  the 
Place.  This  sonnet,  very  flowery  and  very  mytho- 
logical, explained  how  the  Parcae  had  wished  to  cut  the 
thread  of  the  days  of  the  sick  man,  but  how  the  Doc- 
tor, accompanied  by  Esculapius,  the  god  of  medicine, 
and  by  Hygeia,  the  goddess  of  health,  had  descended 
into  the  infernal  regions  in  order  to  arrest  the  shears  of 
Atropos  and  to  replace  the  tow  upon  the  distaffs  of 
Clotho,  tow  which  Lachesis  spun  afterward  with  a 
great  deal  of  evenness.  We  like  this  antiquated  and 
innocent  manner  of  expressing  gratitude. 

The  Cathedral,  whose  facade  fronts  upon  this  Place, 
is  in  the  Italian  Gothic  style  so  inferior  in  our  mind  to 
the  Gothic  of  the  North.  The  porch  presents  some  cu- 
rious details.  The  columns,  instead  of  resting  on 
plinths  like  ordinary  ones,  rest  on  chimeras  similar  to 
those  in  the  portal  of  St.  Justin  at  Padua,  which  they 
half  crush,  and  which  seem  to  be  revenging  themselves 
for  the  pain  thus  caused  by  tearing  Nine  vitish  lions,  which 
they  hold  prisoners  between  their  claws.  These  mon- 
ster caryatides  writhe  so  frightfully  under  the  enormous 
pressure  that  it  makes  one's  eyes  ache. 
[     325     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

The  castle  of  tlie  ancient  dukes  of  Ferrara,  which  is 
to  be  found  a  little  farther  on,  has  a  fine  feudal  aspect. 
It  is  a  vast  collection  of  towers  joined  together  by  high 
walls  crowned  with  a  battlement  forming  a  cornice, 
and  which  emerge  from  a  great  moat  full  of  water,  over 
which  one  enters  by  a  protected  bridge.  The  castle, 
built  wholly  of  brick  or  of  stones  reddened  by  the  sun, 
has  a  vermilion  tint  which  deprives  it  of  its  imposing 
effect.     It  is  too  much  like  a  decoration  of  a  melodrama. 

It  was  in  this  castle  that  the  famous  Lucretia  Borsfia 
lived,  whom  Victor  Hugo  has  made  such  a  monster  for 
us,  and  whom  Ariosto  depicts  as  a  model  of  chastity, 
grace  and  virtue ;  that  blonde  Lucretia  who  wrote  let- 
ters breathing  the  purest  love,  and  some  of  whose  hair, 
fine  as  silk  and  shining  as  gold,  Byron  possessed. 

It  was  there  that  the  dramas  of  Tasso  and  Ariosto  and 
Guarini  were  played  ;  there  that  those  brilliant  orgies 
took  place,  mingled  with  poisonings  and  assassinations, 
which  characterized  that  learned  and  artistic,  refined 
and  criminal,  period  of  Italy. 

It  is  the  custom  to  pay  a  pious  visit  to  the  problemati- 
cal dungeon  in  which  Tasso,  mad  with  love  and  grief, 
passed  so  many  years,  according  to  the  poetic  legend 
which  grew  up  concerning  his  misfortune.  We  did  not 
have  time  to  spare  and  we  regretted  it  very  little. 
This  dungeon,  a  perfectly  correct  sketch  of  Avhich  we 
have  before  our  eyes,  consists  only  of  four  walls,  ceiled 
by  a  low  arch.  At  the  back  is  to  be  seen  a  window  grated 
by  heavy  bars  and  a  door  with  big  bolts.  It  is  quite 
unlikely  that  in  this  obscure  hole,  tapestried  with  cob- 
webs, Tasso  could  have  worked  and  retouched  his  poem, 
composed  sonnets,  and  occupied  himself  with  small  details 
of  toilet,  such  as  the  quality  of  the  velvet  of  his  cap  and 
the  silk  of  his  stockings,  and  with  kitchen  details,  such  as 
with  what  kind  of  sugar  he  ought  to  powder  his  salad, 
that  which  he  had  not  being  fine  enough  for  his  liking. 
[     326     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Neither  did  we  see  the  house  of  Ariosto,  another  re- 
quired pilgrimage.  Not  to  speak  of  the  little  faith 
which  one  should  place  in  these  unautheuticated  tradi- 
tions, in  these  relics  without  character,  we  prefer  to 
seek  Ariosto  in  the  Orlando  furioso,  and  Tasso  in  the 
Jerusalem  delivree,  or  in  the  fine  drama  of  Goethe. 

The  life  of  Ferrara  is  concentrated  on  the  Plasa 
Nuova,  in  front  of  the  church  and  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  castle.  Life  has  not  yet  abandoned  this  heart  of 
the  city ;  but  in  proportion  as  one  moves  away  from  it,  it 
becomes  more  feeble,  paralysis  begins,  death  gains ;  si- 
lence, solitude,  and  grass  invade  the  streets ;  one  feels 
that  one  is  wandering  about  a  Thebes  peopled  with 
ghosts  of  the  past  and  from  which  the  living  have  evap- 
orated like  water  which  has  dried  up.  There  is  nothing 
more  sad  than  to  see  the  corpse  of  a  dead  city  slowly  fall- 
ing into  dust  in  the  sun  and  rain.  One  at  least  buries 
human  bodies. 

After  a  few  mouthfuls  swallowed  hastily,  we  climbed 
into  oui-  carriage  and  resumed  our  journey  toward  Bo- 
logna. We  stopped  on  the  way  at  a  vast  inn  with  an 
arcade  open  to  every  wind  that  blows,  in  a  place  the 
name  of  which  we  do  not  recall,  but  which  probably 
was  Cento,  where  we  partook  of  a  modest  repast,  since 
we  were  anxious  to  reach  Bologna  before  evening.  Our 
memory  recalls  little  of  this  piece  of  road  except  vast 
expanses  of  cultivation  and  trees,  without  the  least 
thing  to  interest. 

Perhaps  the  evening  shades  which  inclined  us  to 
somnolence  and  only  permitted  the  spark  of  our  cigar 
to  shine,  robbed  us  of  some  beautiful  view ;  but  that  is 
unlikely,  from  the  configuration  of  the  ground, 

Bologna  is  a  city  with  arcaded  streets  like  the  ma- 
jority of  the  towns  of  this  part  of  Italy.  These  porti- 
cos are  convenient  as  shelters  from  the  rain  and  sun ; 
but  they  transform  the  streets  into  long  cloisters,  ab- 

[      327     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

sorbing  the  light  and  giving  to  the  towns  a  cold  and 
monastic  aspect.  One  can  judge  as  to  the  gaiety  of  this 
system  by  referring  to  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  in  Paris. 

We  alighted  at  a  certain  inn,  where,  by  a  touching 
pantomime,  we  obtained  a  supper  in  which  Bologna 
sausage  figured  advantageously,  since  it  satisfied  the  de- 
mand of  local  color. 

After  supper  we  sallied  forth.  A  roguish  fellow  with  a 
dull  and  greasy  countenance,  a  bristling  mustache,  many 
trinkets,  and  a  coat  trimmed  with  gimp,  recalling  the 
type  of  Pere  Cavalcanti  in  the  romance  of  Alexander 
Dumas,  put  himself  at  our  heels  and  followed  us,  al- 
though we  changed  our  direction  every  moment  in  order 
to  get  rid  of  him.  Tired  of  this  pursuit,  and  taking 
him  for  a  rascal,  we  directed  him  somewhat  roughly  to 
choose  another  road  ;  but  he  declared  that  he  would  not 
leave  us,  it  being  his  right  and  his  business  to  act  as 
guide  to  travelers.  In  that  quality  we  belonged  to  him. 
We  were  robbers  who  were  depriving  him  of  his  prop- 
erty, taking  the  bread  out  of  his  mouth  and  money  out 
of  his  pocket.  He  had  reckoned  on  us  for  the  where- 
withal to  regale  himself  with  a  flask  of  Piccolit  or  of 
Aleatico,  to  buy  a  ribbon  for  his  wife  and  a  ring  for  his 
mistress.  We  were  wretched  canaille  so  to  upset  his 
plans  and  spoil  his  domestic  happiness.  We  were  set- 
ting a  bad  example  to  future  travelers  and  he  was  re- 
solved not  to  recede  an  inch.  He  wished  to  conduct  us 
to  the  stage-coach,  the  lamps  of  which  were  shining  two 
paces  before  our  eyes  and  to  guide  us  to  the  Rue  des  Gal- 
eries,  in  which  we  were  at  that  moment.  We  have  never 
encountered  a  more  obstinate  scoundrel. 

After  swearing  at  him  most  energetically  and  strongly 
recommending  him  to  go  to  the  devil,  he  recommenced  his 
offers,  as  though  we  had  said  nothing  at  all,  pretending 
that  we  would  surely  lose  our  way  and  that  he  would 
not  permit  such  a  thing  for  the  world. 

[     328     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

We  saw  then  that  we  must  iise  strong  measures.  We 
retreated  a  few  steps,  and  mentally  invoking  the  mem- 
ory of  Lecour,  our  professor  of  fencing  and  boxing,  we 
pretended  to  execute  that  beautiful  flourish  of  our  walk- 
ing stick  which  Corporal  Trim  might  have  envied  for 
the  complication  of  its  evolutions  and  which  in  terms 
of  art  is  called  the  rose,  couvcrte. 

When  the  scoundrel  saw  the  stick  about  to  descend 
like  a  flash  of  lightning  and  heard  it  whistle  like  an  ad- 
der two  or  three  mches  from  his  nose  and  his  ears,  he 
retreated  grumbling  and  saying  that  it  was  unnatural 
for  decent  travelers  to  refuse  the  services  of  an  accom- 
pHshed  guide  who  had  shown  Bologna  to  the  great  satis- 
faction of  the  English. 

Remorse  for  not  having  cracked  his  skull  comes  upon 
us  sometimes  in  our  sleepless  nights ;  but  perhaps  we 
might  have  been  arrested  for  this  worthy  action  and 
made  to  pay  for  that  pumpkin  as  though  it  had  been  a 
head.  We  ask  pardon  from  travelers  who  have  been 
wearied  by  him  since,  for  not  having  assumed  the  re- 
sponsibility. It  is  an  oversight  that  we  will  remedy  if 
ever  we  pass  through  Bologna  again. 

We  had  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Rossini,  who  un- 
fortunately was  absent  and  not  expected  to  return  for 
several  days.  It  is  too  bad  not  to  know  the  features 
and  the  voice  of  a  great  contemporary  genius,  and  when 
we  are  listenmg  to  "  Semiramis,"  "  The  Barber  of  Se- 
ville," or  "  William  TeU,"  it  is  painful  for  us  only  to  be 
able  to  connect  with  the  idea  of  Rossini  the  engraving  by 
Scheffer  and  the  statue  in  the  ofiice  of  the  manager  in 
the  vestibule  of  the  opera. 

A  puerile  remark,  perhaps,  but  one  which  we  have 
already  made  in  our  travels,  is  that  one  can,  from  the 
number  of  barbers  which  a  cit}^  contains,  judge  of  the 
greater  or  less  degree  of  its  civilization. 

In  Paris  there  are  very  few ;  in  London,  none  at  all. 
[     329     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

In  that  native  land  of  razors  everybody  shaves  himself. 
Without  being  willing  to  accuse  the  Romagna  of  har- 
barism,  it  is  only  just  to  say  that  nowhere  have  we  seen 
so  great  a  nunit3er  of  barbers  as  at  Bologna ;  a  single 
street  contains  more  than  a  score  of  them  in  a  very  re- 
stricted space,  and  what  is  still  more  droll,  the  citizens 
of  Bologna  all  wear  beards.  It  is  the  country  people 
who  form  the  customers  of  these  barbers,  whom  we 
found  to  have  a  very  Hght  touch,  as  we  had  them  exper- 
iment upon  our  own  skin,  but  they  do  not  possess  the 
dexterity  of  the  Sjoaniards,  the  best  barbers  in  the  world 
since  Figaro. 

On  leaving  the  barber  shop  we  followed  at  hazard  a 
street  which  brought  us  out  suddenly  on  the  square, 
where  for  many  centuries  have  tottered  without  falling, 
the  Towers  of  the  Asinelli  and  the  Garisenda,  which  had 
the  honor  of  furnishing  a  simile  for  Dante.  The  great 
poet  compares  Antaeus  bending  toward  the  earth  to 
Garisenda,  which  proves  that  the  inclination  of  the  Bo- 
lognese  tower  dates  back  as  far  as  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. 

These  towers,  seen  by  moonlight,  had  the  most  fan- 
tastic appearance  in  the  world ;  the  strange  deviation, 
giving  the  lie  to  all  the  laws  of  statics  and  of  perspective, 
causes  vertigo  and  makes  all  the  neighboring  buildings 
appear  to  be  out  of  plumb.  The  Tower  of  the  Asinelli 
is  three  hundred  feet  high ;  its  inclination  is  three  feet 
and  a  half.  This  extreme  elevation  makes  it  appear 
slender,  and  we  can  only  compare  it  to  one  of  those  im- 
mense factory  chimneys  of  Manchester  or  Birmingham. 
It  launches  itself  upward  from  a  crenelated  base  and  has 
two  stories  also  crenelated,  the  second  in  retreat ;  from 
the  belfr}^  which  surmounts  it,  descends  an  armor  of 
iron  binding  it  to  the  base  of  the  edifice. 

The  Garisenda,  which  is  scarcely  half  as  high  as  the 
Tower  of  the  Asinelli,  leans  frightfully  and  makes  its 

[     330     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

neighbor  seem  almost  upright.  Although  it  has  leaned 
in  this  way  for  more  than  six  hundred  years,  one  does 
not  like  to  find  oneself  on  the  side  toward  which  it  in- 
clines. It  seems  to  you  that  the  moment  of  its  fall  has 
arrived  and  that  it  is  about  to  crush  you  under  its  debris. 
It  is  a  movement  of  infantile  fright  from  which  it  is  dif- 
ficult for  you  to  refrain. 

A  weird  and  grotesque  idea  which  well  depicts  the 
extravagant  effect  of  these  towers,  comes  over  you  while 
looking  at  them,  and  we  said  to  our  traveling  compan- 
ion, "  These  are  two  monuments  who  have  been  drink- 
ing outside  the  walls,  and  who  are  returning  drunk, 
leaning  on  each  other's  shoulders." 

If  the  moonlight  allowed  the  Towers  of  the  Asinelli 
and  Garisenda  to  be  seen,  it  did  not  suffice  to  enable  us 
to  examine  at  the  Museum  the  paintings  of  Guido,  of 
the  three  Carrache,  of  Dominiquin,  of  Albane,  and  other 
great  masters  of  the  Bolognese  school,  and  to  our  great 
regret  we  went  to  bed  in  one  of  those  enormous  Italian 
beds,  in  which  the  seven  brothers  of  the  little  Tom 
Thumb,  and  the  seven  daughters  of  the  Ogre  stretched 
themselves  out  with  their  fathers  and  mothers;  one  can 
sleep  in  them  in  every  possible  way,  at  length  and  across 
the  width  and  diagonally  without  ever  falling  into  the 
space  between  the  bed  and  the  wall. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  dressed  ourselves 
while  still  half  asleep  in  order  to  catch  the  coach  for 
Florence,  and  we  noticed  a  movement  of  troops.  It  was 
an  execution  which  was  being  prepared  for.  Every  morn- 
ing a  score  of  people  are  shot  for  political  reasons.  We 
left  Bologna  under  that  painful  impression  which  we 
had  already  experienced  at  Ferrara  and  which  still  awaits 
us  at  Rome  ;  but  the  idea  of  crossing  the  Apennines  on  a 
beautiful  September  day  very  soon  dispelled  that  lugu- 
brious feeling. 

C     331     ] 


CHAPTER    XXIX 
FLORENCE 


THE  Armida  of  the  Adriatic  had  held  us  in  its 
enchanted  canals  beyond  the  period  of  our  ex- 
pectations, and  although  no  Chevalier  Ubaldo 
had  come  to  make  us  blush  for  our  laziness  in  disclos- 
ing to  our  eyes  the  magic  shield  of  diamonds,  it  be- 
came necessary  to  depart  at  last,  and,  after  a  brief  stay 
at  Padua,  the  gloominess  of  which  seemed  the  more 
oppressive  in  comparison  with  the  faiiy  city  of  Cana- 
letto,  we  directed  our  steps  as  straight  as  possible 
toward  Florence,  the  Athens  of  Italy. 

We  greatly  regretted  our  inability  in  passing  through 
Bologna  to  visit  the  Church  of  the  Madonna  of  San- 
Luca,  a  singular  edifice  situated  upon  a  mountain 
called  la  Guardia,  and  to  which  a  corridor  leads,  formed 
on  one  side  by  a  long  wall  of  three  miles  in  length, 
and  on  the  other  by  six  hundred  and  ninety  arcades, 
framing  a  marvelous  landscape. 

This  immense  portico,  erected  by  the  piety  of  the 
Bolognese,  scales  the  sides  of  the  mountain  by  five  hun- 
dred and  fourteen  steps,  and  conducts  the  curious  and 
the  devout  from  the  city  gates  to  the  sanctuary,  but  in 
traveling,  as  in  everything  else,  one  must  know  how 
to  make  sacrifices ;  if  one  wishes  to  reach  the  end  of 
his  journey,  a  route  must  be  chosen  and  followed,  cast- 
ing a  glance  of  regret  toward  that  which  has  escaped 
you.  To  wish  to  see  everything  is  the  way  to  see 
nothing.     It  is  enough  to  see  something. 

The  road  from  Bologna  to  Florence  passes  over  the 
Apennines,  that  backbone  of  Italy — a  backbone,  in  fact, 

[     332     ] 


FLORENCE 

The  Uffizi  Porticoei^  (  Vasari),  with  a  view  of  the  Palazzo 


'AOV^'A*s\ 


I 


nini: 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

of  which  each  gaunt  peak  is  a  vertebra.  Even  for  the 
traveler  most  accustomed  to  disappointments,  there 
are  certain  names  which  exercise  a  magical  influence. 
Apennine  is  one  of  these  ;  it  has  been  seen  in  Horace 
and  the  ancient  writers,  how  classic  studies  mingle 
with  our  first  impressions  and  it  is  difficult  not  to  have 
an  idea  of  an  Apennine  already  formed  in  one's  mind, 
which  the  sight  of  the  real  one  singularly  contradicts 
and  distorts. 

The  Apennine  chain  is  composed  of  a  succession  of 
barren  eminences,  round,  exhausted,  excoriated,  of 
rugged,  scraggy  hillocks,  which  resemble  heaps  of  peb- 
bles and  gravel ;  there  are  none  of  those  gigantic  rocks, 
those  summits  velvety  with  pines,  those  peaks  bathed 
in  clouds,  silvered  with  snows,  of  those  glaciers  with 
thousands  of  scintillating  crystals,  of  those  cascades  on 
which  the  rainbow  plays,  of  those  lakes,  blue  as  the 
turquoise,  where  the  chamois  comes  to  drink,  of  those 
great  circles  of  eagles  soaring  in  the  light,  —  nothing  but 
a  poverty-stricken  nature,  dull  and  sterile,  and  which 
seems  all  the  more  paltry  and  shabby  after  the  Olympian 
majesty  of  the  Swiss  Alps  and  the  Tomantic  horrors  of 
the  Valley  of  Gondo,  whose  picturesqueness  is  so  grand 
and  terrible. 

Certainly  a  mania  for  comparison  is  an  indication  of 
wrong-headedness,  but  we  cannot  help  thinking  of  those 
beautiful  Spanish  sierras  of  which  nobody  speaks,  and 
whose  ignored  beauty  is  far  greater  than  that  of  Italian 
scenery,  perhaps  too  much  vaunted  ;  we  recollect  a  trip 
which  we  made  from  Grenada  to  Velez-lNIalaga,  across 
the  mountains  by  a  pass  traversed  probably  by  not  more 
than  two  travelers  in  the  course  of  a  whole  year,  and 
which  surpasses  all  that  can  be  imagined  in  the  shape  of 
light,  color,  and  form. 

We  thought  also  of  our  excursion  in  Kabyla,  of  those 
mountains  gilded  by  the  African  sun,  of  those  valleys 
[     333     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

full  of  rose-laurels,  of  mimosas,  of  arbutus,  of  lentis- 
cus,  where  trickled  rivulets  inhabited  by  little  turtles, 
of  those  Kabylan  villages  surrounded  by  palisades  of 
cactus  and  those  horizons  which  the  imposing  silhouette 
of  the  Djurdjura  always  dominated,  and  veritably  the 
Apennines  appeared  to  us  mediocre,  in  spite  of  their 
classic  reputation. 

We  should  not  like  to  give  ourselves  over  to  that 
famous  Marseillaise  paradox  which  consists  in  saying, 
"  In  Africa,  one  freezes ;  in  Russia,  one  broils."  Nev- 
ertheless we  must  admit  that  we  shivered  with  cold  on 
our  aerial  journey,  in  spite  of  a  putting  on  of  cloaks  and 
coats  which  would  have  excited  the  envy  of  M^ry,  the 
chilly  poet.  Never,  in  Paris,  during  the  most  rigorous 
winter,  have  we  been  clothed  simultaneously  with  a  like 
quantity  of  wearing  apparel,  and  yet  we  were  only  in 
mid-September,  a  season  which  one  is  accustomed  to 
think  of  as  being  warm  and  charming  under  the  soft 
sky  of  Tuscany ;  it  is  true  that  the  elevation  freshened 
the  air,  and  that  the  cold  of  warm  countries  is  particu- 
larly disagreeable  on  account  of  the  suddenness  of  the 
contrast. 

It  is  not  for  the  purpose  of  erecting  a  monument  to 
the  numbness  of  our  fingers  and  the  chattering  of  our 
teeth  that  we  have  inserted  these  remarks.  It  matters 
little  to  the  universe  whether  we  were  warm  or  cold  on 
the  top  of  our  stage-coach  ;  but  this  observation  may  serve 
to  prevent  some  innocent  and  confiding  Parisian  from 
setting  out  from  Tortoni  for  Florence  in  the  month  of 
August  in  nankeen  pantaloons  and  a  linen  coat,  and  of 
causing  him  to  add  to  his  baggage  a  tartan  plaid,  a  cloak 
of  pilot  cloth  and  a  comforter ;  we  might  also  prevent 
some  colds  in  the  head  or  on  the  chest.  The  descrip- 
tion of  our  sufferings  there  is  not  personal,  it  is  whoUy 
philanthropic. 

The  violence  of  the  wind  is  so  great  on  these  bald 

[     334     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

mountains,  which  receive  alternately  blasts  which  have 
been  refrigerated  by  the  Mediterranean  and  the  Adriatic, 
that  the  Grand  Duke  has  caused  to  be  erected,  at  the 
culminating  point  of  the  route,  a  stone  wall  for  the  pro- 
tection of  travelers  against  those  icy  gales  which  blow 
across  them  and  blow  back  again.  Those  who  have  seen 
the  mistral  at  work  on  the  platform  of  the  Castle  of  the 
Popes  at  Avignon  will  understand  the  utility  of  such  a 
wall.  An  inscription  in  hosjiitable  style  verifies  this 
benevolent  attention  on  the  part  of  Leopold,  an  atten- 
tion for  which  we  thank  him  from  the  bottom  of  our 
heart. 

At  this  point,  one  leaves  the  Romagna  to  enter  Tus- 
cany ;  another  visit  of  the  customs  officers,  an  inconve- 
nience of  these  states  parcelled  out  in  petty  principalities. 
One  passes  one's  life  in  opening  and  closing  one's  trunks, 
a  monotonous  occupation  which  ends  in  making  the 
most  phlegmatic  become  furious.  Happily,  we  have 
adopted  a  system  of  philosophy  which  we  have  already 
developed  api'opos  of  the  Romagnole  customliouses.  We 
show  our  key  to  whoever  wishes  to  take  it  or  leave  it  in 
the  lock,  and  we  go  off  to  contemplate  peacefully  the 
landscape,  a  facility  which  the  implacable  stage-coach 
does  not  always  permit.  From  this  point  of  view  it  is 
perhaps  regrettable  that  there  are  not  more  custom- 
houses on  the  road. 

When  the  slopes  of  the  Apennines  begin  to  incline 
toward  Florence,  the  landscape  commences  to  gain  in 
beauty.  Villas  show  themselves  on  the  side  of  the 
road,  cypresses  erect  their  black  spars,  a  more  caressing, 
a  warmer  breeze,  allows  you  to  open  your  cloak ;  the 
olive  risks  its  sorrowful  foliage  to  the  air  without  shiver- 
ing ;  a  movement  of  pedestrians,  of  horses  and  carriages 
makes  perceptible  the  approach  of  a  great  living  city  — 
a  rare  thing  in  Italy,  that  ossuary  of  dead  cities. 

Night  had  fallen  when  we  arrived  at  the  San  Gallo 
[      335     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

gate.  A  very  meager  breakfast,  although  washed  down 
with  passable  wine  contained  in  big  flaslcs  of  white  glass 
covered  with  netting,  swallowed  at  the  Tuscan  frontier, 
had  filled  us  with  a  lively  desire,  in  spite  of  our  usual 
sobriety,  for  a  Black  Eagle,  a  Red  Lion,  a  Golden  Sun, 
or  a  cross  of  Malta  —  something  to  apply  itself,  as  Rabe- 
lais says,  "  to  the  satisfaction  of  that  which  is  under  the 
nose,"  which  so  much  disturbed  that  good  Panurge.  Our 
eyes  had  made  their  four  repasts,  good  or  bad,  but  our 
stomach  had  only  had  one,  and  a  very  thin  one  at  that  I 

Florence  has  her  corset  tied  with  a  girdle  of  fortifica- 
tions and  makes  trouble  when  one  knocks  at  her  door  in 
the  evening.  We  were  compelled  to  wait  a  whole  hour 
before  the  gate  for  we  knew  not  what  police  formalities, 
then  finally  the  wooden  barrier  was  lifted,  —  a  species 
of  peaceful  portcullis,  which  bars  the  arch,  —  and  the 
carriage  was  allowed  to  roll  over  the  cyclopean  pavement 
of  Florence. 

For  a  city  of  festivals  and  of  pleasure,  the  name  of 
which  sheds  a  perfume  like  a  bouquet,  Florence  gave  us 
a  strange  reception,  and  one  which  would  have  caused 
a  more  superstitious  traveler  to  beat  a  retreat  on  account 
of  its  aspect  of  evil  omen. 

In  the  first  street  upon  which  the  coach  entered,  we 
encountered  an  apparition  as  terrifying  as  that  of  the 
cart  of  the  Cortes  in  the  death  feigned  by  the  ingenious 
Knight  of  La  INIancha  in  the  environs  of  Toboso ;  only 
this  was  of  a  frightful  reality. 

Two  files  of  masked  black  spectres,  carrying  torches 
of  resin  from  which  escaped  floods  of  reddish  light  min- 
gled with  thick  smoke,  marched,  or  rather  ran  behind 
a  catafalque  borne  on  the  shoulders,  and  which  could  be 
vaguely  distinguished  in  the  tawny  glare  of  funereal 
light ;  one  of  them  was  ringing  a  bell  and  all  were  mut- 
tering under  their  masks,  prayers  for  the  dead  with 
panting  breath. 

[     336     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

Occasionally  another  black  spectre  would  issue  from 
a  house  and  join  himself  in  haste  to  the  sombre  band, 
which  presently  disappeared  in  turning  into  a  cross  road. 
It  was  a  Brotherhood  of  Black  Penitents  who,  accord- 
ing to  custom,  were  acting  as  escort  to  a  funeral  proces- 
sion. 

The  Southern  people,  although  they  think  less  of 
death  than  the  people  of  the  North,  because  their 
thoughts  are  incessantly  distracted  by  the  voluptuous- 
ness of  the  climate,  the  spectacle  of  a  beautiful  Nature, 
the  ardor  of  a  warmer  blood  and  stronger  passions,  love 
these  processions  of  phantoms  in  dominos ;  for  they  are 
to  be  met  with  everywhere  in  Italy.  They  feel  the  need 
of  giving  everything  a  plastic  form  and  of  acting  upon 
the  imagination  by  spectacles.  It  is  not  a  long  time 
since  they  were  accustomed  to  carry  the  dead  to  their 
last  resting-places  with  their  faces  uncovered  ;  the  aspect 
of  these  immobile  cadavers,  livid  under  the  paint  which 
they  used  to  conceal  the  fixed  grimace  of  the  last  agony 
and  the  decomposition  already  setting  in,  added  still 
more  to  the  sinister  and  fantastic  effect  of  these  burials. 

Weird  custom !  In  England,  the  country  of  Young's 
Night  Thoughts,  the  country  in  wliich  the  grave-diggers 
of  Shakespeare  play  ball  on  the  stage  with  the  skull  of 
Yorick,  in  the  native  land  of  the  spleen  and  of  suicide, 
the  dead  are  buried  surreptitiously,  almost  secretly,  at 
liours  when  the  streets  are  deserted  and  by  unfrequented 
roads  ;  in  the  course  of  four  or  five  trips  to  London,  we 
have  not  encountered  a  single  funeral.  One  drops  out 
of  life  there  into  nothingness  without  transition,  and 
your  useless  remains  are  juggled  away  and  concealed 
with  the  greatest  agility.  Catholicism  arranges  the 
scenery  of  death  in  a  better  fashion,  and  a  strong  faith 
in  the  immortality  of  the  soul  diminishes  the  terror  of 
funeral  ceremonies. 

The  Hdtel  de  New  York,  on  the  Lung  a  VArno,  near 

[     337     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN      ITALY 

the  bridge  to  Carraia,  had  been  recommended  to  us  as 
quite  comfortable.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  found  a  big 
house  kept  in  the  Enghsh  fashion,  where  one  can  eat  in 
a  civiHzed  manner,  something  which  had  not  happened 
to  us  for  a  long  time.  The  travelers  of  other  nations 
are  not  sufficiently  grateful  to  the  English,  those  great 
educators  of  hotel-keepers,  those  brave  Islanders  who 
transport  their  whole  fatherland  along  with  themselves, 
in  boxes  and  compartments,  and  who,  living  in  the  most 
uncivilized  countries  just  the  same  as  they  would  in  the 
City  or  the  West  End,  have,  by  force  of  guineas,  odd 
cries,  and  obstinate  clucking,  established  all  over  the 
world  the  rump-steak,  salmon  cutlets,  boiled  vegetables, 
Indian  curry,  and  the  little  pharmacies  of  vitriolic  con- 
diments, the  cayenne  pepper,  the  red  capsicum  of  India, 
and  the  Harvey  and  anchovy  sauce.  Thanks  to  them, 
there  is  not  a  desert  isle  in  the  most  unknown  archi- 
pelago of  Oceanica  where  there  is  not  to  be  found,  at 
any  hour  of  the  day  or  night,  tea,  sandwiches,  and 
brandy,  just  as  at  the  taverns  around  Greenwich. 

Our  meal  finished,  we  wandered  about  the  city  for  a 
while  without  a  guide,  according  to  our  usual  custom, 
and  trusting  to  that  instinct  of  locality  which  prevents 
us  from  getting  lost,  even  in  places  which  we  know  only 
by  the  map  or  a  quick  glance. 

We  ascended  the  Lung-Arno  as  far  as  the  Bridge  of 
the  Trinity ;  we  walked  along  a  cross  street  and  found 
ourselves  in  front  of  the  Caf^  Doni,  the  Tortoni  of  Flor- 
ence. Carriages  stop  there  on  returning  from  the  di'ive 
to  the  Cascines,  the  Champs  Elys^es  of  the  place,  and 
ices  are  brought  out  to  the  carriage. 

Two  big  girls,  a  trifle  sunburned  but  quite  pretty, 
costumed  with  a  sort  of  elegance,  and  wearing  hats  of 
Itahan  straw,  which  is  so  expensive  in  Paris,  precipi- 
tated themselves  upon  us  Avith  a  joyous  boldness,  their 
hands  full  of  flowers,  and  quickly  made  a  flower-garden 

[    y;38    ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

of  our  coat ;  each  buttonhole,  in  the  flash  of  an  eye,  and 
before  we  had  a  chance  to  prevent  it,  was  decorated 
with  a  rose  or  a  carnation.  Never  was  a  dandy  more 
blooming  with  flowers. 

The  flower-girls,  having  seen  a  tenderfoot,  if  we  may 
be  pardoned  the  use  of  slang,  had  welcomed  us  after 
their  fashion.  Florence  is  the  city  of  flowers ;  there  is 
an  enormous  consimiption  of  them  there.  In  driving, 
the  seats  of  the  carriages  are  loaded  with  bouquets  ;  they 
are  made  to  rain  into  the  carriages  at  every  step,  the 
houses  are  crowded  with  them,  and  one  mounts  stair- 
cases between  two  flowering  hedge-rows. 

It  is  said  that  in  the  spring  the  countryside  is  enam- 
eled with  a  thousand  colors  like  a  Persian  carpet.  It  is 
a  sight  of  which  we  can  speak  only  from  hearsay,  for  we 
were  there  in  the  fall. 

While  we  were  in  the  hands  of  these  girls,  we  heard 
ourselves  hailed  by  three  or  four  friendly  voices,  just  as 
if  we  had  been  in  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens. 

The  friend  with  whom  we  had  made,  in  1840,  that 
beautiful  and  lengthy  excursion  in  Spain,  one  of  our  most 
cherished  memories,  happened  to  be  in  Florence,  where 
he  was  preparing  the  materials  for  his  superb  photo- 
graphic publication,  "  Monumental  Italy, "  and  grasped 
us  cordially  by  the  hand  across  the  excited  group  of 
flower-girls  ;  Loubon,  the  Marseilles  painter  ;  Sturler,  a 
German  artist  of  the  German  school  of  Overbeck,  whose 
picture  representing  the  death  of  Suenon  has  doubtless 
not  been  forgotten,  having  been  exhibited  a  few  years 
ago  at  the  Salon,  and  recalling  by  its  execution  the  dis- 
temper painters,  the  tryptiques  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury ;  G.,  the  philologist,  the  erudite,  the  mysterious 
well  of  knowledge  who  amasses  for  himself  alone  a 
Benedictine  erudition,  saluted  us  gaily  and  offered  us 
cigars  and  ices. 

We  were  in  a  land  of  friends,  and,  elbow  on  table, 

[      339      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

nose  in  a  thick  cloud  of  smoke,  we  began  one  of  those 
conversations  that  can  only  be  carried  on  among  people 
who  as  artists,  critics,  philosophers,  or  poets  have  run 
through  all  the  worlds  of  art.  Whatever  beauty  there 
may  be  in  a  climate,  however  rich  a  country  may  be  in 
palaces,  in  pictures,  in  statues,  nothing  can  take  the 
place  of  these  vagabond  conversations,  full  of  ellipses 
and  sous-entends,  in  which  a  single  word  may  awaken 
a  host  of  ideas,  in  which  Truth  sharpens  itself  upon  a 
paradox,  in  which  one  touches  upon  everything  without 
having  the  appearance  of  so  doing,  in  which  humor  has 
unknown  depths,  and  which  are  the  despair  of  foreign- 
ers who  Usten  to  them,  imagining  that  they  understand 
French. 

Each  one  described  for  us  his  plans  for  seeing  Flor- 
ence, some  saying  that  a  few  days  would  suffice,  others 
claiming  on  the  contrary  that  more  than  a  year  was 
necessary  in  order  to  explore  the  rich  treasures  which 
that  city  contained,  the  cradle  of  Tuscan  art.  To  this 
we  replied  that  our  time  was  limited,  that  we  must 
visit  Rome  and  Naples  before  the  weather  became  too 
bad,  and  that  we  had  no  intention  of  preparing  an  er- 
udite work,  but  simply  of  taking  a  few  daguerreotype 
views  of  objects  which  appealed  to  us  most  strongly  — 
views,  monuments,  works  of  art,  costumes,  and  peculiari- 
ties —  and  that  our  talent  did  not  extend  beyond  such 
work  as  that ;  while,  in  this  talk  of  an  hour's  duration, 
plans  had  been  outlined  the  accomplishment  of  which 
would  demand  our  entire  lifetime. 

We  returned  to  the  Hotel  de  Ncio  York,  and  as  soon 
as  it  was  daylight,  we  thrust  our  nose  out  of  the  window 
to  study  the  perspective  which  unrolled  itself  before 
our  eyes. 

The  Arno  flowed  between  two  quays  of  stone,  turbid 
and  yellow,  covering  scarcely  half  of  its  bed,  which, 
slimy,  covered  with  gravel,  broken  glass,  and  detritus 

[     340     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

of  every  kind,  was  visible  in  spots.  It  merits  the  name 
of  torrent  much  more  than  that  of  river ;  it  flows  in  an 
intermittent  fashion,  according  to  the  caprices  of  floods 
and  droughts,  now  almost  dry,  and  again  overflowing, 
and  at  Florence  resembles  the  Seine  between  the  bridges 
of  the  Hotel  Dieu  and  the  Pont  Neuf  more  than  any- 
thing else. 

Some  fishermen,  in  the  water  up  to  their  hips,  were 
the  only  signs  of  animation  upon  the  river,  which,  on 
account  of  the  instability  of  its  depth,  can  only  carry 
flat  scows,  a  matter  which  is  all  the  more  imfortunate 
because  it  is  so  near  the  sea,  into  which  the  Arno  emp- 
ties after  passing  through  Pisa. 

The  house  which  fronted  on  the  other  quay  was  lofty 
and  of  a  sober  architecture.  A  few  domes  and  a  few 
towers  of  distant  churches  alone  broke  this  horizontal 
line.  We  also  perceived  beyond  the  roofs  of  the  build- 
ings the  little  hill  of  San  Miniato,  with  its  church  and 
its  cypress  trees,  the  name  of  which  had  remained  im- 
bedded in  our  memory,  although  we  had  never  been  in 
Florence,  by  the  reading  of  tne  Lorenzaccio  of  Alfred  de 
Musset,  whose  twenty-fifth  chapter  bears  this  title  :  "Be- 
fore the  Church  of  San  Miniato  at  Montolivet.  "  Why 
did  our  memory  retain  this  insignificant  detail  at  the 
end  of  so  many  years,  when  we  had  forgotten  so  many 
more  important  matters  ?  He  who  can  answer  this  ques- 
tion can  unravel  the  mysterious  circumvolutions  of  poor 
human  brains. 

The  beautiful  Bridge  of  the  Trinity  with  its  three 
slender  arches,  by  the  architect  Ammanato,  spans  on  our 
right,  the  river  Arno.  It  is  adorned  with  statues  of  the 
four  seasons,  which  from  a  distance  produce  quite  a 
monumental  effect. 

We  have,  on  our  left,  the  Carraia  Bridge,  one  of  the 
oldest  in  Florence,  since  its  construction  dates  back  to 
the  thirteenth  century.    Carried  away  by  a  flood,  it  was 

[     341     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

rebuilt  by  Ammanato,  the  architect  of  the  Bridge  of  the 
Trinity,  of  which  we  have  just  spoken. 

To  this  bridge  is  attached  a  strange  legend.  In  the 
month  of  May,  1304,  an  odd  announcement  spread 
through  Florence  gave  the  inhabitants  to  understand 
that  "Those  who  desired  to  obtain  news  from  the  other 
world  would  only  have  to  betake  themselves  to  the  Car- 
raia  Bridge."  This  singular  invitation  drew  an  enor- 
mous crowd  to  the  bridge,  the  piers  of  which  were  of 
stone  and  the  arches  of  wood. 

The  idea  of  hell  summed  up  some  years  afterward  in 
the  great  poem  of  Dante  then  occupied  all  minds,  painters 
covered  the  walls  of  churches  and  of  cloisters  with  dia- 
bolically fantastic  compositions,  which  were  summed  vip 
later  by  a  supreme  master  in  the  "  Last  Judgment "  of 
Michael  Angelo. 

It  was  therefore  a  representation  of  hell  that  was  given 
upon  the  river  according  to  the  fantastic  imaginations 
of  the  wild  man  of  Buffamaleo.  The  Arno,  loaded  tem- 
porarily like  Phlegeton,  like  Cocytus,  was  plowed  by 
black  barks  in  the  style  of  Charon's  boat,  in  which  rode 
the  ghosts  welcomed  with  blows  of  pitch-forks  by  devils 
with  horns,  claws,  wings,  with  a  spiral  tail,  in  the  at- 
titude made  necessary  by  the  occupation ;  a  mixture  of 
punishments.  Christian  and  pagan,  boiling  cauldrons, 
gridirons,  Avheels,  spikes,  representing  all  varieties  of 
torture,  possible  and  impossible,  with  flame  and  smoke, 
Greek  fire,  and  other  artifices.  The  enormous  mouths  of 
Hell,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Middle  Ages,  opened  and 
closed,  permitting  a  view,  through  a  reddish  flame,  of 
the  crowd  of  the  damned  tormented  by  the  devils. 

This  weird  spectacle  was  given  by  the  inhabitants  of 
the  burg  of  San  Fanfrediano  to  the  citizens  of  Florence, 
who  paid  dearly  for  it ;  for  the  bridge  broke  under  the 
weight  of  the  crowd,  a  large  number  of  the  spectators 
fell  into  the  water  and  into  the  flames,  drowning  and 
[     342     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

burning  at  the  same  time,  and  had,  as  the  announce- 
ment promised,  news  direct  from  the  other  world,  by 
going  to  seek  it  themselves. 

We  have  been  told  that  a  catastrophe  of  this  kind 
almost  happened  in  Paris  under  the  Empire,  while  some 
fireworks  were  being  set  off  on  the  Pont  Royal.  At  the 
moment  when  the  first  rockets  went  off,  the  crowd  sta- 
tioned on  the  Bridge  of  Arts  all  leaned  toward  the 
balustrade,  and  the  flooring  of  the  bridge  tipped  up;  a 
quick  leap  back,  executed  with  the  agility  of  fear  and  by 
all  together,  reestabhshed  the  platform  in  its  equili- 
brium, and  the  Parisians  of  1810  fared  better  than  the 
Florentines  of  1304. 

After  this  catastrophe  the  bridge  was  rebuilt  wholly 
of  stone  and  almost  in  the  form  in  which  it  is  seen  to- 
day. 

The  general  aspect  of  Florence,  contrary  to  the  iisu- 
ally  received  idea,  is  sad.  The  streets  are  narrow,  the 
houses  lofty,  sombre  in  appearance ;  and  have  none  of 
that  bright  Southern  gaiety  which  one  expects  to  find  in 
them. 

This  city  of  pleasure,  of  which  rich  and  elegant  Eu- 
rope makes  a  smnmer-house,  has  a  disagreeably  crabbed 
physiognomy.  Its  palaces  resemble  prisons  or  fortresses  ; 
each  house  has  the  air  of  intrenching  itself  or  of  de- 
fending itself  against  the  street ;  the  architecture,  mas- 
sive, solid,  serious,  has  preserved  all  the  distrust  of  the 
Middle  Ages  and  seems  always  to  expect  some  surprise 
from  the  Pazzi  and  the  Strozzi. 

Florence,  then,  which  one  pictures  to  himself  as  lying 
under  an  azure  sky  in  a  drapery  of  white  buildings,  and 
inhaling  carelessly  the  fragrance  of  the  red  lily  of  its 
armorial  bearings,  is  as  a  matter  of  fact  an  austere  matron, 
half  hidden  in  h6r  black  veils,  like  one  of  Michael 
Angelo's  Fates. 

[     343     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 


II. 

The  Greeks  had  a  peculiar  expression  in  order  to 
render  by  a  single  word  the  central  or  important  place 
of  a  city  or  a  country, — o23hthalmoH  (eye).  Is  it  not, 
in  truth,  the  eye  which  gives  life,  intelligence,  and 
meaning  to  the  human  countenance,  which  expresses 
its  thought  and  calms  by  its  luminous  magnetism  ? 

If  this  idea  is  transferred  from  living  nature  to  dead 
nature  by  a  bold,  but  correct  metaphor,  is  there  not  in 
each  city  a  place  which  sums  it  up,  at  which  life  and 
movement  meet,  in  which  its  historic  memories  are  sol- 
idified under  a  monumental  form  in  a  way  to  produce 
a  single,  striking  whole,  an  eye  on  the  visage  of  the 

Every  great  capital  has  its  eye  :  at  Rome  it  is  the 
Campo  Vaccino  ;  at  Paris,  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  ; 
at  Venice,  the  Place  Saint  Mark ;  at  Madrid,  the 
Prado  ;  at  London,  the  Strand ;  at  Naples,  the  Via  di 
Toledo.  Rome  is  more  Roman,  Paris  more  Parisian, 
Venice  more  Venetian,  Madrid  more  Spanish,  London 
more  English,  Naples  more  Neapolitan,  in  that  privi- 
leged locality  than  anywhere  else.  The  eye  of  Flor- 
ence is  the  Place  of  the  Grand  Duke  —  a  beautiful 
eye.  In  fact,  suppress  that  Place  and  Florence  has  no 
more  meaning,  —  it  might  be  another  city.  It  is  at 
that  place,  therefore,  that  every  traveler  ought  to  be- 
gin, and,  moreover,  had  he  not  that  intention,  the  tide 
of  pedestrians  would  carry  him  and  the  streets  them- 
selves would  conduct  him  thither. 

The  first  aspect  of  the  Place  of  the  Grand  Duke 
has  an  effect  so  charming,  so  picturesque,  so  complete, 
that  you  comprehend  all  at  once  into  what  an  error  the 
modern  capitals  like  London,  Paris,  St.  Petersburg,  fall 
in  forming,  under  the  pretext  of  squares,  in  their  com- 
pact masses,  immense  empty  spaces  upon  which  they 

[     -1     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

run  aground  all  possible  and  impossible  modes  of  deco- 
ration. One  can  touch  with  his  finger  the  reason 
which  makes  of  the  Carrousel  and  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, great  empty  fields  which  absorb  fountains,  stat- 
ues, arches  of  triumph,  obelisks,  candelabra,  and  little 
gardens.  All  these  embellishments,  very  pretty  on 
paper,  very  agreeable  also,  without  doubt,  viewed  from 
a  balloon,  are  almost  lost  for  the  spectator  who  can 
not  grasp  the  whole,  his  height  only  rising  five  feet 
above  the  ground. 

A  square,  in  order  to  produce  a  beautiful  effect,  ought 
not  to  be  too  big ;  it  is  also  necessary  that  it  should  be 
bordered  by  varied  monuments  of  diverse  elevations. 
The  Place  of  the  Grand  Duke  at  Florence  unites  all 
these  conditions :  bordered  by  monuments  regular  in 
themselves,  but  different  one  from  another,  it  is  pleasing 
to  the  eye  without  wearying  by  a  cold  sjmimetry. 

The  Palace  of  the  Seigneurie,  or  Old  Palace,  which 
by  its  imposing  mass  and  severe  elegance  at  first  attracts 
the  attention,  occupies  a  corner  of  the  Place,  instead  of 
the  middle.  This  idea,  a  happy  one,  in  our  opinion,  re- 
grettable for  those  who  only  see  architectuial  beauty 
in  geometrical  regularity,  is  not  fortuitous  ;  it  has  a 
reason  wholly  Florentine.  In  order  to  obtain  perfect 
symmetry,  it  would  have  been  necessary  to  build  upon 
the  detested  soil  of  the  Ghibelhne  house,  rebellious  and 
proscribed  by  the  Uberti ;  something  that  the  Guelph 
faction,  then  all-powerful,  were  not  willing  to  allow  the 
architect,  ArnoKo  di  Lapo,  to  do.  Learned  men  con- 
test the  truth  of  this  tradition  ;  we  will  not  discuss  here 
the  value  of  their  objections.  It  is  certain,  however, 
that  the  Old  Palace  gains  greatly  by  the  singularity  of 
this  location  and  also  leaves  space  for  the  great  Foun- 
tain of  Neptune  and  the  equestrian  statue  of  Cosmo 
First. 

The  name  of  fortress  would  be  more  appropriate  than 
[     345     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

any  other,  for  the  Old  Palace ;  it  is  a  great  mass  of 
stone,  without  columns,  without /ro?i^a/,  without  order 
of  architecture.  Time  has  gilded  the  walls  with  beauti- 
ful vermilion  tints  which  the  pure  blue  of  the  sky  sets 
off  marvelously,  and  the  whole  structure  has  that 
haughty  and  romantic  aspect  which  accords  well  with 
the  idea  that  one  forms  for  oneself  of  that  old  Palace 
of  the  Seigneurie,  the  witness,  since  the  date  of  its 
erection  in  the  thirteenth  century,  of  so  many  intrigues, 
tumults,  violent  acts,  and  crimes.  The  battlements  of 
the  palace,  cut  square,  show  that  it  was  built  to  that 
height  by  the  Guelph  faction  ;  the  trifurcated  battle- 
ments of  the  belfry  indicate  a  sudden  change  on  the  ac- 
cession to  power  of  the  Ghibelline  faction.  Guelphs 
and  Ghibelhnes  detested  each  other  so  violently  that 
they  expressed  their  opinions  in  their  garments,  in  the 
cut  of  their  hau",  in  their  arms,  in  their  manner  of  forti- 
fying themselves.  They  feared  nothing  so  much  as  to 
be  captured  by  one  another  and  differed  as  much  as  they 
possibly  could.  They  had  a  special  salutation  after  the 
manner  of  the  Freemasons  and  the  Companions  of  Duty. 
The  opinions  of  the  ancient  owners  of  the  Old  Palace 
at  Florence  can  be  recognized  by  this  characteristic :  the 
walls  of  the  city  are  crenelated  squarely  in  the  Guelph 
fashion,  and  the  tower  on  the  ramparts  has  the  Ghibel- 
line battlement  of  swallow-tail  shape. 

The  Vecchio  Palace  has  for  its  basement  several  steps 
which  were  used  in  former  times  as  a  species  of  tribune, 
from  the  top  of  which  the  magistrates  and  demagogues 
harangued  the  people.  Two  colossal  statues  of  marble 
—  Hercules  slaying  Cacus,  by  Bandinelli,  and  David 
the  Conqueror  of  Goliath,  by  Michael  Angelo,  —  mount 
near  the  door  their  age-long  sentry-watch,  like  two  gi- 
gantic sentinels  whom  someone  lias  forgotten  to  re- 
lieve. 

The  Hercules  of  Bandinelli  and  the  David  of  Michael 

[     346     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

Angelo  have  been  the  objects  of  both  criticism  and 
praise  which  do  not  appear  to  me  very  just.  In  our 
opinion  Bandinelli  has  been  too  much  depreciated  and 
Michael  Angelo  too  much  praised.  There  is  in  this 
Hercules  slaying  Cacus  a  lofty  spiritedness,  a  fierce  en- 
ergy, a  grandeur  of  sentiment,  which  denote  an  artist 
of  the  first  rank.  Never  has  Florentine  hyperbole  pushed 
farther  anatomical  exaggeration ;  the  bent  neck  of  Cacus 
and  the  interlacing  of  the  muscles  which  bear  up  his 
monstrous  shoulders  display  an  astonishing  force  and 
power,  and  Michael  Angelo  himself  when  he  saw  this 
piece  moulded  separately  could  not  help  according  it 
his  approbation.  The  torso  of  Hercules  was  greatly 
criticised  by  the  artists  and  the  public  of  the  period. 
This  Bacchio  Bandinelli  had  a  most  amusing  contro- 
versy in  the  presence  of  the  Grand  Duke  with  that  grea£ 
braggart,  Benvenuto  Cellini,  the  bully  of  art.  "  Make 
thyself  ready  for  another  world,  for  I  will  drive  thee 
from  this  world,"  said  Benvenuto  to  Bandinelli,  sitting 
on  his  haunches  like  a  Don  Spavento  of  Comedy.  "  Let 
me  know  a  day  in  advance,  that  I  may  make  my  con- 
fession and  my  will,  for  I  do  not  wish  to  die  as  a  brute 
like  thee,"  replied  the  sculptor.  This  dialogue,  alter- 
nating between  billingsgate  and  scientific  criticism, 
greatly  diverted  the  Grand  Duke.  These  animosities 
were  really  of  more  value  to  art  than  tlie  hypocritical 
sycophancies  indulged  in  by  modern  artists  between 
themselves.  Passion  is  a  good  thing  and  proves  a  sin- 
cere belief ;  moreover  Benvenuto  Cellini  does  justice  to 
the  talent  of  Bandinelli  in  his  Memoirs,  in  which  he  ac- 
cords him  an  honorable  place  among  contemporaneous 
celebrities. 

The  David  of  Michael  Angelo,  besides  the  inconven- 
ience there  is  in  representing  under  a  gigantic  form  a 
Biblical  hero  of  notoriously  small  size,  seemed  to  us  a 
trifle  common  and  heavy,  a  rare  defect  with  this  master ; 

[      347     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

his  David  is  a  great  big  boy,  fleshy,  broad-backed,  with 
monstrous  biceps,  a  market  porter  waiting  to  put  a  sack 
upon  his  back.  The  working  of  the  marble  is  remark- 
able and,  after  all,  is  a  fine  piece  of  study  which  would 
do  honor  to  any  other  sculptor  except  Michael  Angelo  ; 
but  there  is  lacking  that  Olympian  mastership  which 
characterizes  the  works  of  that  superhuman  sculptor. 

Two  otlier  statues,  one  by  Bandinelli,  the  other  by 
Vicenzo  de  Rossi,  served  in  olden  times  as  posts  on 
which  to  hang  the  chain  which  barred  the  gate  :  that  of 
Vicenzo  represents  a  man  terminating  in  the  trunk  of  an 
oak  intended  to  symbolize  the  power  and  magnanimity 
of  Tuscany  ;  that  of  Bandinelli  represents  a  woman,  her 
head  encircled  by  a  crown,  her  feet  caught  in  a  laurel, 
symbolizing  the  supremacy  in  the  arts  and  the  courtesy 
of  that  happy  land.  Above  the  door  two  lions  sustain 
a  shield  with  this  inscription: 

Jesus  Christus,  Rex  Florentini  Populi. 
S.  P.  Decreto  Electus. 

Jesus  Christ  was,  in  fact,  elected  King  of  Florence,  on 
the  proposition  of  Nicolo  Capponi  to  the  Council  of  the 
Thousand,  with  the  idea  of  assuring  public  tranquillity, 
Christ  not  being  a  King  who  could  be  replaced  or  sup- 
planted by  anyone.  This  ideal  presidency,  however, 
did  not  prevent  the  Republic  from  being  overthrown. 

The  court  into  which  this  door  leads  was  put  in  its 
present  condition  by  Michelozzi.  The  style  of  the 
Renaissance  blooms  in  the  architecture.  Elegant  col- 
umns supporting  arcades  form  a  courtyard  such  as  one 
finds  in  the  centre  of  Spanish  houses  ;  a  fountain  erected 
accordmg  to  drawings  of  Vasari  by  the  sculptor  Tadda, 
under  the  order  of  Cosmo  I,  occupies  the  middle  of  it 
and  completes  the  resemblance.  The  basin  is  of 
porphyry;  the  water  gushes  from  the  snout  of  a  fish 
being  strangled  by  a  beautiful  child  in  bronze,  by  An- 
drea   Verocchio.     Above   the    arcades    are    painted   in 

[     348     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

frescos,  trophies,  spoils  taken  in  war,  armor  and  prison- 
ers in  chains,  with  niedalHons  containing  the  armorial 
bearings  of  Florence  and  the  Medici. 

One  of  the  most  curious  features  of  the  Old  Palace  is 
the  grand  salon,  a  hall  of  enormous  dimensions  which 
has  its  legend.  When  the  Medici  were  driven  from 
Florence,  in  1494,  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  who  di- 
rected the  popular  movement,  proposed  the  idea  of  con- 
structing an  immense  hall  where  a  council  of  a  thousand 
citizens  would  elect  the  magistrates  and  regulate  the 
affairs  of  the  Eepublic.  The  architect  Cronaca  had 
charge  of  this  task  and  acquitted  himself  of  it  with  a 
celerity  so  marvelous  that  Brother  Savonarola  caused  the 
rumor  to  spread  that  angels  descended  from  heaven  to 
help  the  masons  and  continued  at  night  the  interrupted 
work.  The  invention  of  these  angels  tempering  the 
mortar  and  carrying  the  hod  is  all  done  in  the  legendary 
style  of  the  jNIiddle  Ages  and  would  furnish  a  charming 
subject  for  a  picture  to  some  ingenuous  pamte^  of  the 
school  of  Overbeck  or  of  Hauser.  In  this  rapid  con- 
struction Cronaca  displayed,  if  not  all  his  genius,  at 
least  all  liis  agility.  The  work  has  been  justly  admired 
and  often  consulted  by  architects. 

When  the  jMedici  returned  to  power  and  transferred 
their  residence  from  the  Palace  of  the  Via  Larga  which 
they  had  occupied  to  the  Palace  of  the  Seigneurie, 
Cosmo  wished  to  change  the  Coimcil  Hall  into  an  audi- 
ence chamber,  and  charged  the  presumptuous  Bacchio 
Bandinelli,  whose  designs  had  attracted  him,  with  vari- 
ous alterations  of  an  important  character ;  but  the 
sculptor  had  undoubtedly  presumed  too  much  on  his 
talent  as  an  architect,  and  in  spite  of  the  assistance  of 
Giuliano  Baccio  d'Agholo,  whom  he  called  to  his  aid,  he 
worked  for  ten  years  without  being  able  to  conquer  the 
difficulties  which  he  had  created  for  himself.  It  was 
Vasari  who  raised  the  ceihng  several  feet,  finished  the 

[     349     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

work  and  decorated  the  walls  with  a  succession  of  fres- 
cos which  may  still  be  seen  and  which  represent  differ- 
ent episodes  in  the  history  of  Florence,  combats,  and 
captures  of  cities,  the  whole  being  a  travesty  of  antiquity, 
an  intermingling  of  allegories.  These  frescos,  painted 
with  an  intrepid  and  learned  mediocrity,  display  the 
commonplace  tones,  swelling  muscles  and  anatomical 
tricks  in  use  at  that  epoch  among  artists. 

Although  it  deals  with  the  history  of  Florence,  one 
would  think  he  was  beholding  the  Romans  of  ancient 
Rome  laying  siege  to  Veia  or  some  other  primitive  city 
of  Latium,  and  these  frescos  have  the  appearance  of  gi- 
gantic illustrations  of  the  De  Viris  illustribus.  This 
false  taste  is  shocking.  What  right  have  the  classic 
helmet  and  the  cuirass  with  thongs,  and  men  altogether 
nude  in  a  war  of  Florence  against  Pisa  and  Sienna  ? 

A  great  number  of  statues  and  groups  in  niches  or  on 
pedestals  decorate  this  hall.  We  will  not  describe  them 
singly,  as  we  should  never  finish ;  but  we  will  mention 
the  "  Adam  and  Eve  "  of  Baccio  Bandinelli,  one  of  the 
best  pieces  of  that  master,  the  "  Jean  de  Medicis  "  and 
the  "Alexander,  "first  Duke  of  Florence,  slain  by  that  Lo- 
renzaccio  who  has  furnished  to  our  poet  Alfred  de  Mus- 
set  a  wholly  Shakesperian  study,  the  "  Vice  Triumphant 
Over  Virtue,"  by  Jean  of  Bologna,  and  especially  a 
"Victory"  by  Michael  Angelo,  destined  for  the  mauso- 
leum of  Julius  II.,  of  a  loftiness  so  sublime  that  it 
seems  to  make  all  the  other  features  flat,  ugly,  common, 
trivial,  almost  abject,  however  beautiful  they  might  be 
elsewhere.  The  "Alexander"  and  the  "Jean  de  Me- 
dicis," in  spite  of  their  fierce  and  imperious  air,  look  like 
little  boys  in  the  presence  of  that  terrible  and  triumph- 
ant statue.  It  was  the  custom  for  Michael  Angelo  to 
cause  to  disappear  and  to  reduce  to  nothingness  all 
works  of  art  which  hazarded  themselves  alongside  of  his 
creations. 

[     350     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

We  have  abeady  called  attention  to  the  fact  that 
colossal  dimensions  are  not  at  all  necessary  to  produce 
effect  in  architecture.  The  Loggia  de  Lanzi,  that  gem 
of  the  Place  of  the  Grand  Duke,  consists  of  a  portico 
composed  of  four  arcades,  three  on  the  fa9ade,  one  in  re- 
turn on  the  gallery  of  the  offices.  It  is  a  miniature  of 
a  monument ;  but  the  harmony  of  its  proportions  is  so 
perfect  that  the  eye  in  contemplating  it  experiences  a 
sense  of  satisfaction.  The  nearness  of  the  Palace  of  the 
Seigneurie,  with  its  compact  mass,  admirably  sets  off 
the  elegant  slenderness  of  its  arches  and  columns.  In 
spite  of  the  opinion  of  Michael  Angelo,  who  replied  to 
the  Grand  Duke,  who  consulted  him  upon  the  subject, 
that  the  best  thing  to  do  in  order  to  decorate  the  Place 
would  be  to  continue  the  portico  of  Orcagna,  or  Orgag- 
na,  —  for  such  is  the  Italian  orthography  of  the  name — 
we  believe  that  the  Loggia  is  best  as  it  is  and  that  it 
would  gain  nothing  by  being  repeated  like  the  arcades 
of  the  Hue  de  Rivoli.  Its  principal  charm  is  that,  sym- 
metrical in  itself,  it  observes  the  law  of  intersequence 
among  the  monuments  which  accompany  it  and  which  it 
interrupts ;  this  diversity  gives  to  the  Place  a  gaiety,  to 
which  ennui  would  have  soon  succeeded  if  the  arcades 
had  been  repeated  upon  all  the  sides. 

Orgagna,  like  Giotto,  like  Michael  Angelo,  like  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci,  like  Raphael  and  all  the  panoramic  capa- 
cities of  those  happy  days  when  commonplace  envy  did 
not  restrict  genius  to  a  narrow  specialty,  ran  over  with 
an  equal  step  the  triple  race-course  of  Art ;  he  was  arch- 
itect, painter  and  sculptor  :  the  Loggia,  the  frescos  of 
the  Campo-Santo,  the  statue  of  the  Virgin,  and  different 
tombs  in  the  churches  of  Florence,  show  how  superior 
he  was  in  each  of  these  roles.  He  also  had  an  innocent 
and  legitimate  pride  in  placing  at  the  bottom  of  his 
paintings,  "  Orgagna,  sculptor,''''  and  at  the  bottom  of  liis 
sculptures,  '■'•pictor.''' 

[     351     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

The  columns  of  tlie  Loggia  have  capitals  of  a  fanciful 
Gothic-Corinthian  style  in  which  the  I'egularities  of 
Vitruvius  are  not  observed ;  a  fact  which  does  not  de- 
tract in  any  way  from  their  charm. 

The  name  Loggia  dei  Lanzi  comes  from  an  old  bar- 
racks of  lansquenets,  or  foot-soldiers,  which  formerly 
existed  not  far  from  there,  when  the  foundations  were 
laid  under  the  tyrannical  rule  of  the  Duke  of  Athens. 
The  object  of  these  buildings  was  to  shelter  the  citizens 
from  sudden  showers  and  to  permit  them  to  transact 
their  business  or  that  of  the  State  under  cover.  It  was 
under  this  gallery,  raised  a  few  feet  from  the  level  of 
the  Place,  that  the  magistrates  were  invested  with  their 
powers,  that  knights  were  created,  the  decrees  of  gov- 
ernment published  and  the  people  harangued  from  a 
raised  platform. 

Public  spirit  would  do  well  to  secure  the  erection  in 
our  rainy  Northern  cities,  where  the  passersby  are  twen- 
ty times  a  day  exposed  to  the  rough  inclemency  of  the 
weather,  of  monuments  like  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi  of 
Florence,  the  Lonja  de  Seda  of  Valencia,  the  Forum 
Boarium  or  the  Grsecastasis  of  Rome  ;  besides  the  pedes- 
trians, these  porticos  might  shelter,  like  that  of  Orgag- 
na,  masterpieces  of  ancient  or  modern  sculpture,  and 
afford  occupation  for  sculptors  as  well  as  architects. 

The  Loggia  is  a  species  of  Museum  in  the  open  air. 
The  "Perseus  "  of  Benvenuto  Celhni,  the  "Judith"  of 
Donatello,  the  "  Rape  of  the  Sabines  "  of  John  of  Bolog- 
na, are  framed  in  the  arcades.  Six  antique  statues  — 
the  cardinal  and  monastic  virtues  —  by  Jacques,  called 
Pietro,  a  Madonna  by  Orgagna  adorn  the  interior  wall. 
Two  lions,  one  antique,  the  other  modern,  by  Flaminio 
Vacca,  almost  as  good  as  the  Greek  hons  of  the  arsenal 
at  Venice,  complete  the  decoration. 

The  Perseus  may  be  regarded  as  the  masterpiece  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  that  artist  so  highly  spoken  of  in 
[     ^52     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

France,  without  scarcely  anything  being  known  about 
him.  This  statue,  a  little  affected  in  its  pose,  like  all 
the  works  of  the  Florentine  school,  has  a  juvenile  grace 
which  is  very  attractive.  The  young  hero  is  about  to 
cut  off  the  head  of  the  unfortunate  Medusa,  whose  body 
with  its  members  convulsed  with  agony,  makes  a  stool 
for  the  foot  of  the  conqueror.  Perseus,  turning  away 
his  face,  on  which  compassion  is  mingled  vtdth  horror, 
holds  his  sword  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  lifts 
the  petrifying  head,  immobile  and  dead  in  the  midst  of 
its  hair  of  twisting  serpents.  The  pedestal,  another 
masterpiece,  is  adorned  with  bas-reliefs  relating  to  the 
history  of  Andromeda,  small  figures  and  foliage,  in 
which  reappears  the  talent  of  Benvenuto,  sculptor.  Be- 
neath one  of  these  figures,  representing  a  Jupiter  stand- 
ing erect  and  brandishing  his  thunderbolts,  this  threaten- 
ing inscription  may  be  read  "  Te,  fill,  si  quis  Iseserit,  ul- 
tor  ero, "  which  applies  equally  well  to  Perseus  as  to 
the  artist.  This  legend  of  double  meaning  seems  to  be 
a  warning  of  the  sculptor  bully  to  the  critic.  Without 
permitting  ourselves  to  be  influenced  by  this  rhodomon- 
tade,  we  shaU  freely  praise  the  Perseus  for  its  heroic 
charm  and  the  beauty  of  its  delicate  forms.  It  is  a 
charming  statue,  a  delicious  jewel;  it  is  worth  all  the 
trouble  it  cost. 

The  Judith  of  Donatello,  at  the  Palace  of  the  Seig- 
neurie,  shows  the  decapitated  head  of  Holophernes  with 
a  rather  shocking  boldness  and  occupies  under  the  arcade 
of  the  Loggia  the  same  situation  as  the  Spartacus  of 
Foyatier  on  the  front  of  the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries. 
Only,  the  protest  of  Spartacus  is  mute,  and  while  that 
of  Judith  offers  no  sort  of  ambiguity  there  has  been  cut 
on  the  plinth  this  slightly  reassming  inscription :  "  Ex- 
emplum  salut  publ.  cives  posuere  MCCCCXV. " 

Both  these  statues  are  of  bronze.  Benvenuto,  in  his 
Memoirs  recounts  in  a  dramatic  and  touching  fashion 

[     353     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

all  the  calamities  connected  with  the  casting  of  the  Per- 
seus and  the  terrible  anguish  he  experienced  up  to  the 
moment  success  came  to  crown  his  work.  In  order  to 
liquify  the  metal  which  had  hardened  in  the  crucible 
and  would  not  run,  the  artist  threw  in  all  his  plate, 
heated  the  fire  with  his  furniture,  and,  worn  out,  pant- 
ing, devoured  by  fever  and  anxiety,  thinking  of  the  joy 
of  his  rivals  if  the  operation  failed,  stood  ready  to  hurl 
himself  into  the  furnace  if  the  mould  cracked  under  the 
pressure  of  the  bronze.  But  what  joy,  what  triumph, 
what  a  happy  banquet  with  his  pupils  and  companions 
when  the  work  issued  forth  radiant  and  pure  after  all 
those  anxieties  !  The  house  is  still  pointed  out  at  Flor- 
ence in  which  the  Perseus  was  cast. 

The  "  Rape  of  the  Sabines "  was  an  admirable  pre- 
text for  Jean  of  Bologna  to  display  his  knowledge  of  the 
nude  and  to  exliibit  the  beauty  of  the  human  form  under 
three  different  expressions :  a  beautiful  young  woman, 
a  vigorous  young  man,  and  a  stately  old  man.  This 
beautiful  group  of  marble  recalls  the  "  Boreas  Carrying 
off  Orythie, "  of  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries ;  there  is 
the  same  elegance,  the  same  ingenious  facility  of  arrange- 
ment. 

But  we  have  had  enough  of  descriptions  of  palaces 
and  of  statuary.  Let  us  take  a  carriage  and  make  our 
way  to  the  Cascines,  the  Champs  Elys^es  of  Florence, 
that  we  may  gaze  upon  some  human  faces  and  rest  our- 
selves from  marble,  stone,  and  bronze. 

III. 

The  Florentine  type  is  essentially  different  from  the 
Lombard  and  Venetian  types.  You  no  longer  see  those 
pure  and  regular  lines,  that  oval  a  trifle  heavy,  that 
happy  serenity  of  form,  that  perfect  health  of  the  beau- 
tiful, which  strikes  you  in  the  streets  of  Milan,  where, 
as  Balzac  so  well  says,  the  daughters  of  the  porter  have 
[     =554    ] 


JOURNEYS     IN      ITALY 

the  air  of  daughters  of  the  queen.  One  would  not  un- 
derstand at  Florence  that  superb  pagan  epitaph  of  an 
unknown  person  whose  tomb  bears  as  its  only  inscrip- 
tion: '■'•  Fu  bello  e  Milanese'" ;  the  Yoluj)tuous  grace  and 
spirituelle  gaiety  of  Venice  are  absent  here. 

The  features  at  Florence  have  not  the  antique  char- 
acter which  still  exists  in  the  remainder  of  Italy  after 
the  slipping  away  of  so  many  centuries,  after  successive 
invasions,  so  radical  a  change  in  customs  and  religion, 
they  are  visibly  more  modern.  If  a  Neapolitan  or  a 
Roman  of  pure  race  could  not  be  mistaken  on  the 
Boulevard  Gand,  a  Florentine  might  pass  unnoticed 
among  Parisians  ;  that  distinct  Southern  stamp  by  which 
other  Italians  are  recognized,  will  not  betray  him. 
There  is  more  of  the  capricious,  more  of  the  unexpected 
in  the  lineaments  of  the  men  and  women  of  Florence ; 
thought,  moral  preoccupations,  leave  on  their  faces  ap- 
preciable furrows  and  produce  an  irregularity  by  which 
the  expression  gains. 

The  women  of  Florence,  less  beautiful  than  the 
Milanese,  the  Venetians,  or  the  Romans,  are  more  inter- 
esting and  have  more  ideas.  They  would  especially 
delight  the  psychological  writer.  Their  eyes  are  veiled 
with  melancholy,  their  countenances  at  times  are 
dreamy,  and  some  have  that  air  of  vague  suffering,  an 
altogether  modern  and  Christian  expression,  which 
would  be  sought  for  in  vain  in  Greek  or  Roman  statu- 
ary. Among  classic  Italian  heads,  the  heads  of  the 
Florentines  are  bourgeois  in  the  inner  and  favorable 
sense  of  the  word.  They  express  not  only  the  race,  but 
the  individual ;  they  are  not  exclusively  human,  they 
are  also  social. 

The  Florentine  artists,  Andrea  del  Sarto  for  example, 

have  not  that  serene  beauty   of   Titian,   that   angelic 

placidity  of  Raphael  ;  they  reproduce  a  type  at  once 

more  humble  and  more  sought  after.     Reality  is  felt 

[      355     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

through  their  ideal ;  they  do  not  give  to  their  features 
that  mask  of  general  regularity  which  the  other  great 
Italian  masters  sometimes  abuse.  They  risk  the  por 
trait  oftener  in  their  compositions  and  are  not  afraid  to 
sketch  a  certain  amount  of  ugliness  in  order  to  attain 
to  character.  Upon  seeing  their  works  one  can  compre- 
hend how  some  of  their  heads,  certainly  less  beautiful 
than  the  types  of  the  painters  of  Venice  or  of  Rome, 
can  still  produce  an  impression  more  penetrating  and 
more  durable. 

These  generalities  —  which  permit  of  numerous  ex- 
ceptions, since  there  are  regular  Florentine  heads  —  are 
the  result  of  observations  made  in  the  streets,  in  the 
churches,  in  the  theatres,  on  the  promenades  ;  is  not  the 
human  face  as  worthy  of  attention  as  architecture  ?  Is 
not  the  model  worth  as  much  as  the  picture,  the  work 
of  God  as  valuable  as  the  work  of  art? 

The  most  favorable  locality  in  Venice  for  this  sort  of 
study,  too  often  neglected  by  tourists  enamored  of  an- 
tiquities or  of  art,  is  undoubtedly  the  drive  of  the 
Cascines,  a  species  of  Tuscan  Champs  Elys^es  and  Hyde 
Park,  into  which  from  three  to  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon pour  in  tilburys,  phaetons,  coupes,  landaus,  Ameri- 
can surreys,  and  even  in  cabs,  all  that  the  city  contains 
of  the  wealthy,  the  noble,  elegant,  and  even  the  preten- 
tious. On  the  Florentine  background  are  brilliant  out- 
lines —  foreign  eccentricities  easy  to  recognize. 

The  Cascines,  the  name  signifying  dairies,  are  situated 
outside  the  walls,  beyond  the  de  Frato  gate,  and  extend 
along  the  right  bank  of  the  Arno  for  a  distance  of  nearly 
two  miles  to  the  point  where  the  Terzolle  empties  into 
the  river. 

Through  masses  of  grand  old  trees  such  as  parasol- 
pine,  evergreen,  oaks,  chestnuts  and  other  Southern  vari- 
eties mingled  with  those  of  Northern  origin,  are  outlined 
the  sandy  roads  which  meet  at  a  centre,  forming  what 
[      356      ] 


FLORENCE 

Promenade  of  the  "  Cascinc,"  Kijufs  Square 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

the  Spaniards  would  call  the  salon  of  this  fashionable 
driveway. 

These  gieat  masses  of  verdure,  bordered  on  one  side 
by  the  gentle  river  Arno,  and  on  the  other  by  the  blue 
vista  of  the  Apennines,  the  distant  slopes  of  which  may 
be  seen  dotted  with  wliite  villas  and  hamlets,  form  under 
the  beautiful  Southern  light,  a  picture  as  a  whole  which 
it  is  hard  to  forget.  The  Cascines  have  something  more 
naively  rural  about  them  than  the  equivalent  drives  of 
Paris  and  London,  and  the  gathering  of  foreign  elegance 
does  not  detract  from  that  Italian  good  nature  so  gra- 
cious in  its  freedom  from  care.  A  country-house  of  the 
Grand  Duke,  very  simple  and  very  commonj)lace,  is 
buried  in  the  midst  of  this  fresh  verdure,  which  the  peo- 
ple of  the  South  appreciate  better  than  we  do,  doubtless 
on  account  of  its  rarity.  We  found  in  Spain  the  same 
admiration  for  the  shady  places  of  the  park  of  Aranjuez, 
which  is  watered  by  the  Tagus,  and  which  is  filled  with 
trees  from  the  North. 

Florence,  a  few  years  ago,  especially  before  political 
events  had  scared  away  the  wealthy  tourists,  was  like 
the  salon  of  Europe ;  there  was  to  be  met  with  "  all 
that  gilded  world  of  the  season  of  the  baths." 

It  was  there  that  betook  themselves  from  all  the  points 
of  the  compass,  English  fleeing  from  their  native  fogs, 
Russians  shaking  off  the  snows  .of  their  six  months' 
winter.  Frenchmen  accomplishing  the  fashionable  tour, 
Germans  seeking  the  naive  in  art,  singers  and  danseuses 
retired  from  the  theatre  and  its  problematical  fortunes, 
dethroned  queens,  pretty  couples  united  at  Gretna-Green 
or  still  more  simply  before  the  altar  of  nature,  women 
separated  from  their  husbands  for  one  reason  or  another, 
great  ladies  having  had  a  stroke,  princesses  dragging  in 
their  train  famous  tenors  or  young  men  with  black 
beards,  dandies  half-ruined  by  Baden  or  Spa,  victims  of 
lansquenet  and  Parisian  credit,  old  maids  seeking  an  ad- 
[     357     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

venture,  a  whole  world  of  interlopers  mixed  with  a  good 
deal  of  alloy,  and  lively,  sjnrituelle,  joyous,  looking  only 
for  pleasure,  and  spending  money  with  all  the  more  care- 
lessness in  that  Italian  luxuries  are  relatively  inexpensive. 

All  this  society  frequented  the  hospitable  balls  of  the 
Grand  Duke  and  amused  itself  greatly.  That  sort  of 
general  tolerance  which  caused  every  individual  to  be 
received  who  bore  himself  well,  and  had  some  sort  of  a 
letter  of  introduction,  often  permitted  the  sharper  and 
adventurer  to  enter  this  cosmopolitan  salon ;  but  one 
was  not  obliged  to  recognize  them  in  London  or  Paris, 
and  the  freedom  of  a  masked  ball  was  fully  enjoyed  in 
the  city.  Intrigues  and  amours  ran  their  course  without 
much  scandal ;  everyone  was  too  busy  to  have  time  to 
speak  evil.  Moreover,  to  accuse  a  woman  of  having  a 
lover  seemed  childish ;  scandal  only  began  with  two  and 
calumny  with  three. 

The  drive  to  the  Casciiics  was  one  of  the  important 
episodes  of  the  day.  A  sort  of  Lovers'  Exchange  was 
held  there,  in  which  the  actions  of  the  women  were 
quoted  as  follows:  "Madame  de  B.  is  going  up;  Ma- 
dame de  V.  is  falling ;  Madame  de  B.  has  left  the  Baron 
L.  for  Prince  D.;  Madame  de  V.  has  been  betrayed  by 
a  minor  cantatrice  of  the  Pergola;  it  is  serious!"  Toi- 
lettes were  criticized  and  analyzed,  more  negligentlj^ 
however,  than  elsewhere,  for  pleasure  was  the  great 
business  ;  but  the  daughters  of  Eve  always  think  a  little 
about  the  cut  of  the  fig  leaf  which  envelops  their  charms 
—  and  this  is  due  doubtless  to  the  virtue  of  the  climate, 
— there  are  to  be  seen  at  the  Cascines  Parisian  women 
sufficiently  in  love  to  be  no  longer  vain  and  to  look  only 
at  their  lover. 

This  movement  of  foreigners  has  moderated  somewhat, 
still  the  Cascines  afford,  from  three  to  seven  o'clock,  ac- 
cording to  the  season,  a  spectacle  of  the  most  joyous  ani- 
mation. 

[     358     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

When  we  arrived  there  in  an  open  carriage,  since  it 
would  be  in  bad  taste  to  go  on  foot,  although  the  dis- 
tance of  the  Casernes  from  the  city  is  very  slight,  the 
Assembly  was  at  its  height.  It  was  a  fine  day,  the  air 
was  balmy,  and  the  sun  slipped  some  joyous  rays  between 
the  light  fleecy  clouds. 

The  central  point  of  the  Cascines  represented  an  enor- 
mous salon,  in  which  the  arrested  vehicles  figured  as 
couches  and  footstools.  The  women,  in  grand  toilette, 
turned  around  upon  the  seat  of  their  carriage,  the  front 
of  which  was  loaded  with  flowers,  with  all  sorts  of  stud- 
ied poses  in  order  to  set  off  their  good  points,  and  with 
the  graces  of  Celimene  that  would  be  the  envy  of  the 
Theatre  Frangais. 

Lovers  on  foot,  attentive  and  simple  gallants,  came  to 
pay  visits  to  the  carriage  of  their  choice,  as  one  goes  to 
call  upon  a  woman  in  an  opera-box,  and  conversed  stand- 
ing on  the  carriage-step. 

It  is  there  that  arrangements  are  made  for  the  even- 
ing, expedients  thought  out,  meetings  planned  without 
a  great  deal  of  precaution  or  mystery,  for  we  found 
scarcely  any  trace  of  that  ferocious  Italian  jealousy,  so 
celebrated  in  melodramas  and  romances. 

The  riders  also  mingle  in  the  conversation  from  the 
top  of  their  prancing  steeds,  which  they  continue  to  ex- 
cite in  order  to  make  them  execute  curvettes,  feats  with- 
out any  danger  which  always  make  a  little  of  a  hero  of 
you  in  the  eyes  of  the  beloved  woman. 

All  this  time  bouquet-sellers  run  from  one  carriage  to 
another  or  assail  the  horsemen  and  pedestrians  with  their 
baskets  which  are  emptied  as  soon  as  filled.  They  carry 
out  to  the  letter  the  recommendation  of  Virgil  "  Mani- 
hus  date  lilia  plenis.^^  They  have  even  the  appearance 
of  giving  them  away,  though  in  reality  they  sell  them. 
They  are  not  paid  for  on  the  spot,  but  the  recipients 
from  time  to  time  make  them  a  present  of  a  Kttle  money 

[     359     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

or  something  else,  which  is  more  agreeable  for  the  vend- 
ors, these  flower-sellers  being  ordinarily  young  and  pretty 
girls,  fresh  flowers  and  pretty  girls  being  drawn  together 
by  a  natural  harmony  of  things. 

We  will  sketch,  keeping  the  name  secret,  some  of  the 
more  remarkable  individualities.  A  Russian  princess 
(all  Russian  women  are  princesses),  enthroned  in  a  su- 
perb open  carriage  dressed  in  violet  velvet,  and  surround- 
ed by  many  admii-ers.  White  as  her  country's  snows, 
her  eyelids  browned  with  kliool,  with  red  lips,  her  face 
framed  in  wavy  hair  of  a  light  chestnut  which  was  almost 
auburn  under  the  gloss  of  essences,  crowned  by  a  thick 
net  which  made  it  almost  like  a  diadem  under  the  aure- 
ole of  her  lace  hat,  she  recalled  by  a  certain  Oriental  and 
Circassian  air,  the  famous  Odalesque  of  Ingres,  popu- 
larized by  the  lithographs  of  Sudre. 

The  great  Russian  ladies  have  in  their  elegance  some- 
thing of  the  barbarian,  and  in  their  pose  an  imperious 
calm,  a  nonchalance  full  of  serenity,  which  comes  to 
them  from  the  habit  of  ruling  their  serfs,  and  gives  them 
a  distinct  physiognomy,  very  easily  recognizable  under 
the  English  or  French  veneer  with  which  they  try  to 
cover  themselves.  This  one  would  have  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a  Greek  Panagia,  if,  in  place  of  the  green  trees 
of  the  Cascines,  upon  which  her  immobile  head  stood 
out,  there  had  been  placed  behind  her  the  background 
of  figured  gold  of  a  tryptich.  Her  small  and  narrow 
hand,  without  a  glove,  loaded  with  enormous  rings, 
scintillated  on  the  rim  of  the  carriage  like  a  relic 
adorned  with  precious  stones  which  is  extended  for  the 
faithful  to  kiss. 

In  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  piteous ly  kept  in  the 
background,  sat  a  friend  or  companion  of  neutral  face 
and  dress,  the  resigned  shadow  of  this  brilliant  picture. 
In  olden  times,  the  blonde  Venetian  ladies  caused 
themselves  to  be  followed  by  a  negro.  It  was  more 
[      3G0      ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

human  and  of  better  effect,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
coloring. 

In  an  English  carriage,  drawn  by  English  horses, 
harnessed  with  English  harness,  sat  an  Englishwoman 
surrounded  by  an  English  atmosphere  brought  from 
Hyde  Park  by  some  process  of  which  we  are  ignorant. 
The  Cascines  disappeared  from  before  our  eyes,  the 
bluish  perspective  of  the  Apennines  vanished  in  a  sud- 
den mist,  and  the  Serpentine  river  replaced  the  Arno. 
A  brusque  rebound  hurled  us  from  Florence  to  London, 
and  we  felt  under  our  thin  coat  a  sharp  blast  of  North- 
ern wind.  We  sought  mechanically  on  the  cushions  of 
our  carriage  for  an  absent  rug,  and  yet  that  woman  was 
beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  a  prosperous  Englishwoman. 
Never  did  whiter  swan  pohsh  its  neck  of  snow  on  the 
lake  of  Virginia  water  in  the  fairy-hke  engravings  of  a 
keepsake  ;  she  was  one  of  those  ideally  ethereally  grace- 
ful creatures,  a  trifle  tall,  as  Lawrence  paints  them,  as 
Westall  draws  them ;  a  slim  and  flexible  neck ;  golden 
hair  falling  in  languid  ringlets  about  a  face  kneaded 
with  cold  cream  and  rouge ;  lashes  sliining  like  silken 
threads  over  eyes  of  a  vague  azure.  In  gazing  at  this 
transparent  shadow,  who  probably  could  digest  a  rump- 
steak  powdered  with  cayenne  pepper  and  washed  down 
with  sheiTy,  one  could  not  help  thinking  of  Cymbeline, 
of  Perdita,  of  Cordelia,  of  Miranda,  of  all  the  poetic 
heroines  of  Shakespeare. 

Two  adorable  babies,  a  little  boy,  spirited  and  dreamy 
Hke  the  portrait  of  young  Lambton;  a  little  girl,  un- 
doubtedly escaped  from  one  of  Reynolds's  frames,  in 
which  the  children  of  Lady  Londonderry  are  represented 
with  wings  like  cherubim  on  a  ground  of  blue  sky,  oc- 
cupied the  front  seat  of  the  carriage  and  played  gravely  • 
with  the  ears  of  a  King  Charles  of  as  pure  a  breed  as 
that  which  Van  Dyck  has  placed  in  his  portrait  of  Hen- 
rietta of  England. 

[     '561     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN      ITALY 

A  cavalier,  stiff  as  a  ramrod,  irreproachably  dressed, 
a  gentleman,  mounted  on  a  blooded  sorrel  liorse  which 
glistened  like  satin,  reins  gathered  together  in  his  hand, 
the  pommel  of  his  stick  between  his  lip,  kept  near  the 
carriage  with  the  most  bored  and  splenetic  air  in  the 
world ;  he  seemed  to  await  the  yomig  woman  with  an 
indulgent  inattentiveness. 

Not  far  away,  talking  with  a  Sicilian  prince,  was  an- 
other Englishwoman  of  a  wholly  different  type,  almost 
Italianized,  and  gilded  by  the  warm  sun  of  Florence ; 
an  intelligent,  fine  face,  a  beautiful  forehead  under 
black  hair,  a  slim  waist,  fitted  to  wear  the  gown  of  a 
woman  or  the  vest  of  an  Amazon ;  a  sort  of  delicate 
Clorinda,  a  doubtful  angel,  of  the  kind  that  Mile,  de 
Faveau  loves  to  make  display  their  wings  above  some 
holy-water  bowl  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

A  hand  of  a  queen,  a  magnificent  arm  which  moulding 
has  made  famous,  caused  us  to  recognize  on  the  seat  of 
another  carriage,  one  of  our  old  Parisian  friends  who 
preserves  at  Florence,  in  spite  of  a  long  exile,  all  the 
spirit  and  all  the  charms  which  made  her  Wednesdays 
sought  after  in  the  Rue  de  Mont  Blanc  ;  we  went  to  greet 
her,  happy  in  finding  a  friendly  face  among  these  un- 
known beauties,  and  qiiestions  vying  with  eacli  other 
leaped  to  our  lips,  hers  concerning  Paris,  mine  of 
Florence. 

Apropos  of  Florence,  we  notice  that  in  this  gallery  of 
portraits  we  have  not  put  any  Florentines.  This  is  for 
the  reason  that  there  were  very  few  Florentines  there, 
and  their  features,  the  general  type  of  which  we  have 
essayed  to  sketch,  have  not  that  sort  of  theatrical  beauty 
which  makes  them  admii'ed  from  a  distance.  We  will 
only  remark  that  they  wear  their  waists  very  long  and 
clasped  by  long  corsets  of  a  peculiar  make,  which  very 
closely  resemble  the  old  French  bodice,  which  impresses 
on  their  movements  a  certain  restrained  stiffness,  con* 

[     362     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

trary  to  the  Italian  freedom.  Some  wear  their  hair 
parted  on  the  side  like  men.  Is  it  a  local  coquetry,  or 
the  need  of  resting  their  hair  fatigued  by  the  comb  ?  We 
do  not  know  how  to  decide.  This  oddity  is  disturbing 
at  first,  without  one  being  able  to  say  why,  and  it 
changes  greatly  the  expression  of  the  countenance.  But 
it  is  the  custom  and  one  ends  by  finding  a  certain  charm 
about  it. 

To  repair  this  omission  we  will  sketch  the  beautiful 

head  of  Signora ,  a  pure-blooded  Florentine,  who 

is  pointed  out  to  us  at  the  centre  of  the  Cascines,  sur- 
rounded by  a  court  of  admirers.  Her  great,  tranquil 
eyes  almost  fixed,  her  pure  and  regular  features,  her 
mouth  clean-cut,  the  strong  and  correct  lines  of  her 
neck,  recall  that  Lucrezia  del  Fede  so  much  beloved  by 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  and  those  beautiful  portraits  of  Bron- 
zino,  which  cannot  be  forgotten  when  once  seen,  and 
which  sum  up  the  Florentine  type  under  its  more  noble 
aspect.  Why  is  it  necessary  that  these  great  artists 
should  lie  sleeping  inider  the  tomb !  They  could  have 
left  to  the  world  an  immortal  image. 

We  were  in  the  course  of  engraving  this  pure  image 
in  our  memory  when  we  saw  all  heads  turning  to  the 
same  side.     This  sudden  movement  was  produced  by 

the  appearance  on  the  scene  of  the  young  Count , 

who  came  out  from  the  Grand  Alley,  driving,  with  an 
incomparable  grace  and  precision,  a  phaeton  drawn  by 
two  wonderful  little  black  horses,  of  much  elegance,  and 
of  extraordinary  nimbleness  and  docility.  This  charming 
equipage  described  a  circle  on  the  sand  of  the  rond-point 
which  a  compass  could  not  have  made  more  exact,  and 
the  Count,  throwing  the  reins  to  his  groom,  leaped  lightly 
to  the  ground,  and  went  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  beau- 
tiful Florentine  whose  features  we  have  just  sketched. 

He  was  a  young  Hungarian  of  twenty-two  or  twenty- 
three  years  of  age,  of  wonderful  beauty,  so  supple,  so 

[     363     ] 


JOURNEYS      IN     ITALY 

unconstrained  and  svelte,  so  virile  in  his  feminine  grace- 
fulness, that  the  more  robust  would  have  lowered  their 
arms  before  him.  He  possessed  the  most  marvellous 
national  costumes  ;  braided  jackets,  vests  stiff  with  em- 
broideries of  gold ;  morocco  boots  strewn  with  pearls, 
caps  constellated  with  diamonds  and  surmounted  by 
aigrettes  of  heron-feathers  that  he  wore  with  a  charm- 
ing complacency  in  the  evening  in  order  to  satisfy  fem- 
inine curiosity  and  doubtless,  a  little,  his  own  coquetry ; 
an  entirely  allowable  coquetry,  for  the  Hungarian  cos- 
tume, in  spite  of  its  profusion  of  ornaments,  is  of  a  heroic 
and  martial  elegance  which  is  far  removed  from  all 
idea  of  ridiculous  dandyism.  The  women,  vanquished, 
avowed  with  pleasure  that  they  were  ugly  alongside  this 
handsome  Hungarian,  and  that  their  richest  ball  toilettes 
were  only  rags  compared  with  his  splendid  glistening 
vestments  of  gold  and  precious  stones. 

A  mysterious  apparition  also  greatly  puzzled,  at  this 
period,  the  cosmopolitan  curiosity  of  Florence.  A  woman 
alone,  and  of  the  most  lofty  air,  had  appeared  at  the 
Cascines,  seated  in  a  brown  caleche,  draped  with  a  big 
shawl  of  white  crepe  de  chine,  the  fringes  of  which  came 
almost  to  her  feet,  her  head  decked  with  a  Parisian  hat 
which  bore  the  ear-marks  of  Madame  Royer  in  big  let- 
ters, and  which  made  a  bright  aureole  around  her  pure 
and  fine  profile,  clear-cut  as  an  antique  cameo,  and  con- 
trasting by  its  Greek  type  with  that  wholly  modern  ele- 
gance and  that  bearing  almost  English  in  its  distinction. 
Her  bluish  neck,  so  white  was  it,  the  rose  of  her  cheek, 
her  eye  of  a  clear  azure  seemed  to  designate  her  as  a 
beauty  of  the  North ;  but  the  sparkle  of  that  sapphire 
eye  was  so  vivid  that  it  seemed  as  though  it  must  have 
been  lighted  by  some  Southern  sky ;  her  hair  had  those 
brownish  tones  and  that  vivacious  force  which  charac- 
terise the  blondes  of  warm  countries ;  one  of  her  arms 
was  buried  in  the  folds  of  her  shawl,  like  that  of  Mne- 
[     364     ] 


JOURNEYS     IN     ITALY 

mosyne,  while  the  other,  clasped  by  a  bracelet,  issued 
forth  half  bare  from  the  flood  of  lace  of  her  sleeve,  and 
was  tapping  against  her  cheek  from  the  end  of  a  little 
gloved  hand  a  camelia  of  a  deep  crimson,  with  a  gesture 
of  dreamy  absentmindedness  evidently  habitual.  Was 
she  English,  Italian,  or  French  ?  That  is  what  no  one 
could  discover,  for  no  one  knew  her.  She  made  the  tour 
of  the  Cascines,  stopped  an  instant  at  the  rond-point, 
seeming  to  be  neither  surprised  nor  interested  by  a  spec- 
tacle which  it  seemed  should  be  new  to  her,  and  took 
her  way  back  to  the  city. 

The  next  day  she  was  looked  for  in  vain ;  she  did  not 
reappear.  What  was  the  secret  of  that  single  drive  ? 
Did  the  unknown  come  to  some  mysterious  rendezvous 
agreed  upon  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other?  Did 
she  wish  to  assure  herself  of  the  presence  of  some  rival 
with  a  faithless  one  ?  It  has  never  been  ascertained. 
But  this  fleeting  vision  has  not  yet  been  forgotten  at 
Florence. 


[     365     ] 


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